Maybe I'm Wrong
by September Watson
Summary: John knew from the first day he met Sherlock that he was different. When a case involving the newly killed friends of Cameron Hooper and the mysterious Camille is brought before the occupants of 221B, something strange begins to happen to John. Or he could be completely wrong about it.
1. Chapter 1

**This has been in my head for a while, and my coming OC is kind of based on me as a character. I hope you all enjoy this eventual Johnlock story, and tell me what you think about the case I made up. **

* * *

Staring at myself in the mirror had become a kind of new horror to me. The flat was empty but for a bed, a dresser, and the mirror. I almost laughed at myself standing there. This was my life now. It struck me as very pathetic.

The man in the mirror had a limp, and a Sig Sauer in the desk drawer, and an alcoholic sister, and was alone, so completely alone, that I would have pitied him had I seen him walking down the street. Former army doctor John Watson. Now reduced to a face in the crowd, a body with no purpose. Day after day, the therapist, the unwritten blog, the flat, all that was left to me.

John Watson. How I wished I was someone else.

* * *

"This bloke I know, I have a feeling you'll get along well." I smiled at Mike, but it was a fake smile, not like the ones I used to give out like favors at a party.

"I can set up a meeting if you like," he continued. "He does need a flatmate, you might be the perfect candidate. You might be able to understand him better than the others can."

I was going to ask what he meant, but I knew anything was better than the doldrums I'd been living in lately. "That sounds lovely. I would like to meet him."

Mike smiled genuinely. "You know, most people would think you're crazy, but I know you're not, and that you and him would work well together."

I sighed. "Alright. Text me the time and place." Maybe this would turn things around. Or the guy was a psychopath. There was always that possibility.

* * *

The first thing that hit me about the man was his eyes. They were pale blue and unbreakable, or maybe as fragile, as glass. The orbs were framed by dark lashes, something that caught me as odd, considering most men's weren't that distinguishable. As my gaze went up and down, more things popped out at me. His cheekbones were sharp like knives, and his hair curled about his face in almost black tendrils. He concentrated on a slide with utmost attention, as if it contained the key to a puzzle. The man barely glanced at me, but I knew somehow that he could see me perfectly well.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked, eyes not moving from the slide under the microscope.

"I'm sorry?" We had just met, he couldn't possibly know about that, unless Mike had told him something.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He cocked his head at me quizzically, like he was just waiting for my answer, not thinking about whether what he had just repeated made any sense at all.

"Afghanistan. How did you know?" My tone told him I wouldn't take no for an answer.

Then the man, whose name I didn't even know, proceeded to tell me about my life. My limp was psychosomatic, I was an army doctor, my injury was traumatizing, my phone had been given to me by Harry, who had received it from Clara. Harry was an alcoholic, and had left Clara. He hadn't known me for three minutes, and yet, here I was listening to him write my biography. He just stared at me and knew.

"That was amazing." The man looked at me with surprise.

"Really?"

I laughed a little. How was he so blind? "Yes, of course. It was extraordinary."

He huffed to himself. "Well, that's not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off." He adjusted his jacket, putting on gloves and walking to the door. "If you're interested, which undoubtedly you are, the name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." The newly named Sherlock shut the door behind him, but not before winking. He was right, of course. I was interested, more so than I'd been since I had come back to London.

"Damn." I grabbed my cane and followed him.

* * *

"The serial suicides, you know those, Sherlock? You could give the Yard a hand, couldn't you?" Mrs. Hudson said, bustling around the flat to get me a cuppa.

"No, the case doesn't interest me enough." He didn't even look away from the window as he spoke.

"Well, I'm happy he's found a flatmate." The kind older lady turned to me. "It takes a lot to make him accept people as quick as he did you. Anyway, about the case, Sherlock."

He smiled out the window. "There aren't just three, there's been a fourth. And this one's different." His face was lit up, and I had a feeling that he attracted others, if he didn't insult them or poke around in bad places first, which eliminated most. "Four serial suicides with a smart killer behind them. I do love serial killers, they're so intelligent until they make a mistake." He took his coat from the landlady and turned up the collar. "Oh, it's finally Christmas!"

Sherlock was halfway down the stairs when he looked back and said, "You could come with me, John. You'll be seeing more bodies, and I know that might make you uncomfortable. But, I could use a doctor's help. Will you?"

I hadn't thought about my answer one bit. "Oh God yes."

* * *

"Bright colored clothes indicate perhaps a job in entertainment. Had multiple lovers, and an unhappy marriage as well. Her ring is clean on the inside, but dirty on the inside, so the only time she cleaned it was when she worked it off her finger for her lovers. Message on the floor is not Rache, but Rachel. But who is Rachel? It has to have some significance." Sherlock spoke in a low, fast tone, almost mumbling.

"Rache is German for revenge," a man I heard called Anderson piped up. To say he despised the genius would be a complete understatement.

"Oh my God, Anderson, can you get any denser? The woman scratched this into the floor with her manicured nails; it would have hurt, and people don't do that for a meaningless German word, so it must be Rachel. Who is Rachel?" I noticed the habit he had of not tolerating idiots. I also noticed my rising heartbeat. I hadn't done this in so long. These bodies had stories, and I wanted to tell them.

"You are brilliant," I remarked as we headed out the door.

His face had an almost smirk-like smile on it. "Glad someone thinks so."

* * *

"You know, you can ring people on their mobiles, rather than kidnapping them in a fancy car." The man standing before me didn't reply, like he thought it was beneath him. I hated people like him, people that couldn't be bothered to get their hands dirty for anything.

"You should fire your therapist." His tone was disinterested at best.

"Why, may I ask?"

"Hold out your hand." I glared at him, but did as he requested. "She thinks your shaking hands stem from the trauma of the war, but that is obviously not the case."

I looked at my hand. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with it. "You are currently in a dangerous situation, and your pulse is elevated significantly. Yet your hand is perfectly still." He paused. "You aren't haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it."

He flicked his cane out as he began to walk away. "I will be keeping an eye on you, doctor. Your interactions with Sherlock are worth watching."

"How do you know him?"

"Let's just say he considers me to be an enemy, his nemesis, if you will. Anthea will get you back to Baker Street, don't worry." Over his shoulder, he called, "Fire your therapist!"

I angrily stared at the seat in front of me on the way back. He threatened Sherlock in not so many words, and I didn't want that to happen. I didn't understand why, but the idea of someone hurting the genius was unnerving.

* * *

My finger left the trigger in what felt like slow motion. I hadn't known Sherlock for more than a few hours, and I was willing to kill for him. Strange, I thought to myself. I wasn't normally loyal so fast. However, once I was loyal, I stayed until the end.

And this could have been the end.

As the cabbie's body slumped to the ground, I caught a glimpse of Sherlock. He'd spotted a face, but I hid so he couldn't see me. He didn't have to know I saved his life, he could have done that himself. I just wanted him to be alive, and that was it. Sherlock Holmes deserved to be alive, in my inferior mind.

The Yard had put caution tape everywhere, but it was easy enough for me to get through. "To make the shot from that distance, it's easy to assume they're trained in combat, as well as they've been battle-hardened, because of the clean shot in a perilous situation. We're possibly looking for an army veteran, or..." Sherlock broke off when he saw me.

"Hello. How are you feeling?" I asked politely.

"Continue, Sherlock," the Detective Inspector prodded.

"Never mind. Don't listen to me. Look, I have a shock blanket. I'm in shock, I'm not thinking clearly."

The DI didn't look convinced, but left us alone. As soon as he was gone, Sherlock complained, "They keep putting this ghastly orange blanket on me. Obviously the color won't help me 'calm down'." He waited until some nurses were out of range before saying, "Nice shot."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I replied smoothly. Sherlock's face had a childish grin on it, and because no one was close enough to be offended, we began to laugh. There should have been nothing funny about the situation. It was a crime scene, I'd just killed a man, Sherlock had nearly died, but none of that mattered. We'd lived. We'd solved a crime. Sherlock had protected me. And so, we laughed.

We got ready to leave not long after that, and after Mycroft let us alone, finally, we could go. Sherlock turned up his coat collar, and I grabbed my cane. His eyes flashed in the darkness. "Why did you protect me?" I wondered aloud.

He smiled. "I have no idea, but you can be certain there was a reason. You are not like other people, John. Perhaps I wanted to preserve my difference."

"And perhaps I wanted to preserve mine." Sherlock's smile widened. "Now, I really would like to get home."

* * *

Months passed, and still I remember that day. I fall asleep to violin every night because of that day, and I find experiments in the fridge for that reason as well. Sherlock was different to me, and I was different to him. No matter how angry he made me, no matter how many people he'd insulted one particular day, there were always the moments when he and I understood each other, and I wasn't about to let go of that.

"Sherlock, dear? Oh good, John, you're here as well. There's been a recent string of murders. All the victims are around seventeen or eighteen, and the police can't identify what they were killed with. Lestrade thought you should know." Mrs. Hudson still insisted she was not our housekeeper.

"Is there anything else?" he asked impatiently, his hands pressed together under his chin.

"All of them revolve around one girl, she found all the bodies. The poor thing has no one left now."

"Does anyone have any idea what they were killed with?" I asked.

"None, and each has been killed exactly the same amount of time after the other."

Sherlock sat up. "John, I'm bored. Let's just go for a little while." Before he could get to the door, I was already there, blocking it.

"Before we go, what is Lestrade's first name?" I asked chidingly. He'd been making a habit of forgetting lately.

"Gavin." I frowned at him. "Grey." I shook my head. "My God, John, do you want to do this case or not?"

I didn't move away from the door. Sherlock huffed, annoyed, and put his hands on my shoulders to shift me aside. The instant he touched me, I felt something run through my veins like gasoline, just waiting to be set on fire. I didn't move for fear I would go up in flames. Sherlock noticed, as he did with everything, and gave me a funny look before parading down the stairs.

"Are you coming, doctor?"

I sighed, trying to ignore whatever had just happened. "You know I am."

* * *

**First chapter, yay! The dialogue wasn't taken from the show, that was basically my best guess. I'm thinking of publishing two chapters each week, because one of my distractions has disappeared. But on the weekends. Maybe. I might. **


	2. Chapter 2

**I promise, everything will get more interesting.**

* * *

We stared down at the most recent body, Sherlock with his magnifying glass in hand, and me with a notepad. He knelt down and got very close to the corpse, making his own notes, I assumed. "Seventeen, prematurely aged slightly, parents were abusive, smoked pot regularly, left-handed, cheated on more than one girlfriend, kept his phone with him at all times, had a severe hangover when he was killed." His speech filled the room with a low baritone. Sherlock's voice and his violin were two of my new favorite sounds over the time I'd known him.

"Okay, that helps a lot. Care to explain how you know?" Lestrade asked impatiently.

"The seventeen years old I got from the file you sent me, he has wrinkles in his face and around his eyes which means he was prematurely aged, and with premature aging at seventeen comes drugs, smoking, or alcohol. The smell on him suggests heavy marijuana use, which explains the aging. The wear line on his jeans, they were worn almost every day with the mobile in them, and he kept his phone in the left pocket, indicative of left-handedness. The outline is too big for a music device, so we can assume it was a phone.

"Now, about his social life, there are bruises and scrapes, relatively new ones, on his wrists and face. This means abusive parents."

"Parents? They both were abusive?" I asked.

"There are two types of scrapes on his body, some that are clean, others with flecks of coral nail polish in them. The ones without the polish are deeper and wider, but look like they've been done with blunter nails. As we established before, the other scrapes were done with polished nails, which tend to be rounded and thinner. Therefore, both parents abused him.

"He had multiple girlfriends, two of which left separate perfumes on his body. The rest can be accounted for by his recently received texts: all the contact names of the seven people were affectionate titles. As he was not gay, we can assume they were previous love interests. The cheating comes from the two scents I mentioned earlier.

"Now, his hangover. There's ibuprofen sitting on the bedside table, and in the bathroom, along with his supply of pot, is quite a bit of vomit. He fell asleep after returning from the place with all the alcohol and woke up to take the ibuprofen before being killed. However, it wasn't the pot or alcohol or overdose of ibuprofen that killed him."

"What did then?" Lestrade asked. He sounded as if he'd resigned himself to Sherlock's explanation. I didn't understand that. I loved hearing him do his deductions. It reminded me that I would always have things to learn. Unless I'd had a particularly bad day at the clinic, then I didn't care.

"There's a needle mark in his neck that your incompetent coroner didn't notice. This is indicative of poison often, and as there are no other drugs in his room, someone killed him with it. You need to check all the other bodies for the same mark, since you were imbecilic enough to not see them."

Anderson added, "Or you're just lying, and your minion isn't doctor enough to care."

I clenched my fists to my sides. Sherlock icily continued, "John found them in the first place, and I insist they are there, or are you blind as well as stupid, Anderson?"

I felt strangely touched that he'd defended me; it wasn't like him. He could have always been just stating facts, but I didn't like to think that I meant nothing to him. I smiled a little, and Anderson fumed.

"John, now I've effectively shut up that halfwit, is there anything you would like to add?" Sherlock looked toward me, the tension fading from his shoulders.

"Well, something stopped his heart pretty fast, and because the body has no other symptoms of poison, it might be something that doctors use today. Do you have any blood samples from him?" I asked Lestrade, as I liked him much more than Anderson or Donovan. They treated Sherlock like a freak.

"There were slightly greater levels of potassium in the blood, but they weren't taken close to the heart."

"Potassium," I mused.

Sherlock was way ahead of me. "Potassium chloride. Used in the United States as part of a lethal injection for prisoners on the death row. Stops the heart when in a great enough dosage, which evidently happened here."

"So, whoever this killer is has access to chemicals like this one," I followed up.

"Precisely." Sherlock had a little smile breaking across his face. "This is new for me. Quite the smart killer to use KCl. I'm mildly impressed."

I grinned back. This case got much more interesting. "Now, if we're all done with the admiration of a murderer, would the psychopath like to see the other bodies?" Donovan drawled.

I glared at her. "Yes, we'd be obliged. Sherlock, shall we?"

He turned up his collar, but not before putting his magnifying lens back into his pocket. "I'll get a cab."

* * *

A girl stood in the St. Bart's corridor when Sherlock and I arrived to see the other victims. Molly was trying her best to comfort her, but she wasn't very easily consoled. "It'll be alright, you'll recover from this."

The girl didn't answer, but her tear-filled eyes were answer enough. She was broken and angry and sad and confused, and I thought about my time in the war when I saw her. "Hello, Molly," I greeted.

"Oh hello, John. Um, Sherlock, hello to you too." He didn't have any sort of expression on his face when Molly spoke to him. "Would you like to say hi?" Molly asked to the girl in her arms.

She shook her head, hugging Molly harder. "I promise we aren't going to hurt you," I said. I wanted to help this girl, and I hoped she heard that in my tone.

The girl barely lifted her head to gaze at me. "My name's Dr. John Watson, and that's Sherlock Holmes. You can just call me John."

Sherlock groaned. "Oh brilliant, now we have a teenaged girl splotch on our case."

I gave him one of my soldier looks, the ones that scared people. "You have no tact at all, and I don't appreciate it. Neither does she, at any rate."

Sherlock didn't speak after that, but the looks he was sending me were a child's version of 'You'll pay later'. "What's your name?" I asked, trying very hard to be soothing.

"Cameron Hooper. And I used to have friends like him, so I know how he is." She had a wistful smile on her features.

"How are you related to Molly?"

"She's my aunt. I wanted to see them one last time before they, um," she broke off.

"So, the three victims were all your friends?" That sounded terrible to me. I don't know what I would do if Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson or Mike or Harry died. There's a great possibility I'd go mad.

Cameron nodded. "Bryan died most recently, Tatum second, and Angelina first." Sherlock stared hard at her with that sentence.

"So you were the second girlfriend, the one he was cheating on. Hm. By the looks of it, you were cheating on him too." Molly's mouth fell open, mine tightening into a very thin line.

"Do you have to alienate everyone you meet?" I was actually angry with him.

"Oh, the truth hurts, doesn't it? Especially when the truth is lying dead in that morgue." Cameron's eyes flashed, and for a second I wondered if they'd gotten harder.

Her next words were cutting. "Yes, Bryan cheated on me. And I knew about it. But sh...I liked to think he deserved a second chance. Now he'll never get that."

"Okay Sherlock, you should probably leave," I said. "I'm hiding your cigarettes for this."

His face reversed from antagonistic to submissive. "You know I'll tear up the whole flat looking, and Mrs. Hudson will have my head."

I smirked. "All of Cameron's friends are dead, and you had to bring up her boyfriend's cheating. I could have taken your experiments as well."

Sherlock huffed. "Maybe you just need a drink at that pub nearby. Your mood changed too quickly."

Cameron faintly grinned. "Is he like that all the time?" Sherlock was mostly out the door when she asked.

"Some of that, yes. But his mood changed faster than usual. I wonder if something is bothering him." I fingered a stray thread on my jumper.

She laughed. "You're always worrying about other people. How long have you known him, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"Maybe a year and a half. How long did you know your friends before they died?"

"Since childhood. I get the feeling that you feel as strongly about Sherlock as I did about them. Am I correct?"

I didn't hesitate in answering, "He's my best friend. I can't imagine my life without him."

"I knew it." Cameron fell silent for a moment, stretching her neck backwards. "You might want to steal those cigarettes before he gets back to your flat."

"Yeah, probably. It was nice speaking to you." She smiled, but there was something behind it that was unnatural for Cameron's features.

"Look at yourself, John. Really hard. You might see things I've picked up." The look was suddenly gone as she went back to Molly. "Auntie, would you please buy me some coffee?"

I stared after them as they left. What could Cameron have meant?

* * *

Cameron drank her coffee in silence. She really pitied John, not knowing what he was missing. It entirely and completely created the man she'd just met, and he couldn't see it. But Sherlock was unfortunately more oblivious than his partner. "Aunt Molly, do you ever want to just shake Sherlock? He can be such an idiot!"

Molly, surprised to be asked, replied, "Yes, darling. Almost every time I see him. But then I regret it. He's kind to John, so it doesn't matter as much."

Cameron let out a long, exasperated breath. "He's kind to John, and yet, I still want to shake him really hard."

* * *

"Pay up," the cabbie said gruffly. I pulled out a few bills and surrendered them. I got out my key for opening the door to 221B and stepped inside once it was unlocked. The slight scent of smoke was in the air.

"Don't tell me he's found them again," I muttered. The door to our flat was wide open, and it was warmer inside than usual. Sherlock was standing by the window, smoking a cigarette.

"I told you I was going to take those. They are going to kill you someday."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You can hide them now, just let me have this one. It calms me."

"You say that about your violin." I took the pack from his outstretched hand. Our fingers brushed, and I thought a circuit of electricity ran through them with that. I quickly moved my hand away.

My voice cracked a bit when I asked, "Do you think there's something about me that only someone like you could have picked up, not even me?"

"Why do you ask?"

I could feel my face heat up. I disliked asking him questions that made me feel like an idiot when I received the answer. "Something Cameron said."

Sherlock's eyes penetrated me for a moment, then drifted into his mind palace. At least he was taking my question seriously. Several minutes passed, and neither of us spoke.

"There's signs like irregular heartbeat, rising temperature, and trouble sleeping that have occurred lately, but everyone has those symptoms occasionally, even me."

I sighed in relief. It wasn't anything wrong, just a cold. Or was it something else?

"Alright. Thank you." I smiled, turning to take the cigarettes to the place Sherlock had never found them. But he had other ideas.

"I'll try to stay away from Cameron from now on. It makes you more upset when I talk to her, and I don't like seeing you upset." He wouldn't look at me, and I knew this was a very Sherlockian version of an apology.

I roughly hugged him for a second. "Thank you." I could feel his ribs under the thin dress shirt, and I knew he hadn't been eating enough lately. "Now, I'll cook some dinner."

"Yours tastes better than Mrs. Hudson's anyway." I laughed and headed into the kitchen. He was forgiven. Why did that always happen? I always ended up forgiving him.

* * *

_The person known as Camille prowled through the streets of London, finally set free since her advantageous meeting. "You and I have more in common than you'll ever know, my dear Cameron. I can't wait to see where this goes in the meantime."_

* * *

**Ooh, who is this Camille? You'll have to find out. For some reason, there's more dialogue here than in my other stuff. **


	3. Chapter 3

**The case has only just started.**

* * *

Gunshots were everywhere. Blood sunk into the ground where I was standing but I tried to ignore it. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, but it was a sick rush. "Watson, we have another one for you!"

"Coming!" I shouted. I ran across the dusty earth to the heavily injured soldier. He'd gotten shot in the stomach, and I needed to operate on him right here. I was used to this, but a foreboding feeling came with the scene. Something terrible was going to happen soon.

As I knelt down by the soldier to survey the damage, I heard a voice behind me. "It's not serious; the bullet only bounced off a rib and is not moving. He'll have a bruised rib, and you'll have to remove the bullet, but everything will be alright." I turned around to see Sherlock looking over my shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" I asked incredulously.

He smirked. "I'm bound to be wherever you are, haven't you known me long enough to retain that information?"

"I am currently on a battlefield, and I don't want you to get hurt, so you should try and stay out of range and sight." Sherlock shook his head, the smirk growing wider.

"You're here, and I would never leave you here alone. What if something happens to you? The entire world would fall, and we can't have that."

"I'm not important enough. The world could exist perfectly well without me," I muttered, disinfecting the soldier's wound.

"Ha!" Sherlock's expression was suddenly very sincere and serious. "You underestimate yourself, John."

I huffed. "Just let me do my job. This soldier needs my help."

"Indeed I do," the soldier added. Somehow, he'd turned into Cameron. "But you are missing something, Dr. Watson. Can you tell what it is?"

"No, I can't, not with the two of you jabbering on!" I said angrily.

"Oh John, that is the problem." Sherlock slumped, a dark red stain forming on the plum shirt he was wearing. Soon the blood had spread to his suit coat, dyeing it even darker. I didn't see where the shot had come from, but it was killing him. "I'm going to die, John. And you can't save me. Soon, you'll be dead as well."

No, no, no. Sherlock was not dying, it wouldn't happen like this. I felt so lost, but I still didn't understand. "Why will I be dead soon?" I could feel the energy and adrenaline flowing out of me as quickly as the blood from his seemingly invisible wound.

"You can't live without him," Cameron whispered. "If he dies, you die. Now wake up, John. I gave you the answer."

* * *

I shot straight up in bed. I could almost still smell the blood. It had been back at the battlefield, and something was different. What was it? _Sherlock was dying. _

Cameron was there too, but what was she doing there? She had told me something important, something very important. God, why couldn't I think of it? But Sherlock dying occupied more of my mind than that did. I could not imagine it without a lightning bolt of pain going through my shoulder. Life without Sherlock.

I shook my head rapidly to clear it. I just needed to get a glass of water or something and go back to bed. Putting on my dressing gown, I opened my bedroom door and stumbled into the kitchen. "You're not usually up at this hour," a voice drawled from the living room.

Sherlock had his violin and bow on his chair, he himself sprawled across the couch in his day clothes, clutching the Union Jack pillow to his chest. His eyes were closed, but I knew if he opened them he'd be staring right at me. "Is there something wrong?"

I blearily looked at him for a moment before answering, "I just had a nightmare. I'm getting a drink."

"Did you eat something with a lot of sugar before going to bed? Sometimes that has a negative effect on dreams."

"Nope. It was about the war, and you were there, and Cameron was there, and you really don't need to get into it." I grabbed what looked like the cleanest glass from the cabinet and filled it with water, being careful to avoid the other things living in the sink. A few gulps were all that was necessary, so I dumped the rest of it out and started walking back into my room.

"Wait." I stopped and glared at him.

"What is it?"

Sherlock actually gazed at me, with mild interest. "Do you want music to help you go back to sleep?"

I was surprised he said that. He didn't normally do things for other people, me being a part of that list. "Yeah, that'd be nice, Sherlock."

He smiled a little. "Does it matter what I play?"

"Not really. Just as long as it helps, I don't mind." While I went back into my bedroom and climbed into bed, I could hear Sherlock beginning to run the bow over the strings in a song I'd never heard before. It started out sad and lonely. Discontent. The piece was beautiful, but it broke my heart. I knew he made the violin sound as if it had feelings, but never this much all at once.

As the song went on, I heard notes of hope and wonder, as if something new was being created. I knew that was my favorite out of all the things Sherlock had played. Eventually, the music rose to a jagged up and down of happiness and sadness, and with a few extra notes of supposed buildup, the piece ended. He hadn't finished it, there was more to come. But I didn't think about it as I drifted off again.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't in the flat when I woke up for the second time. He had probably gotten a call from the Yard to look at some evidence, so I didn't think too much about it. I made myself some breakfast and dressed, grabbing my jacket to go to the clinic. Before I left however, the phone rang.

"Dr. Watson," I said.

"Hello, John."

"Oh hello, Cameron. Is there anything..."

"No, nothing's amiss. Except Holmes is here, bothering me."

I sighed annoyedly. "Put him on the phone for a minute."

A slight pause followed. "Yes, John?"

"Why are you bothering her?"

I could hear the 'you are such an idiot' noise through the device. "Her room has clues to the lifestyles of her friends and therefore who their killer might be. Why wouldn't I be here?"

"What's the address?" I asked, entirely resigned to the investigation.

He listed off a street and number not too far from Baker Street. "And John?"

"Yes?"

"You really do like me dragging you into this, right?"

I smiled. "Of course."

* * *

Sherlock was pacing across the room, back and forth and back and forth, until my eyes hurt watching him. "It was so hard waiting for you to come. You actually appreciate my deductions, while Kat just stands there passively. It's very annoying."

"Kat?" I asked, turning to the other person in the room.

She shrugged. "I assumed yours was the only name he could remember. It's not a big deal."

"He remembers his brother's name." It made me strangely happy that people thought I was important enough for Sherlock to only know my name. I did mean something to him, I was his best friend, but this felt like...maybe different.

Sherlock glared at us. "That is completely irrelevant."

"You wanted me to come and hear the deductions, so let's hear them."

He took a deep breath. "When you first walk in here, you see the bedspread. It has pencil and pen marks all over it, this suggests writing and doing homework on it. But, there's also lipstick and wash-out hair dye on the pillows and the sheets, and Kat doesn't wear lipstick or have dyed hair, she hasn't ever dyed her hair, so this is from either Tatum or Angelina.

"There's an intricate organization system in the closet, mostly by color, but sometimes by name, so there might be a bit of obsessive/compulsive disorder here, but you also notice the mess on the bed's side of the room. It's like two separate people live in here, or her friends stayed over often enough to cross their habits over.

"What she's wearing, a sweater that isn't hers, but has a few short blond hairs on the sleeves, it was originally Tatum's, because Bryan has brown hair and Angelina has natural red. It's sentimental, all the other items of clothing in your closet are yours, but you're wearing Tatum's sweater. With sentiment often comes love, so here's more evidence you were cheating on Bryan with Tatum."

I gaped at him. "John, leave it alone for a moment. This is important to the case."

"Are you joking?! I don't care if it's important to the case, it is not alright to analyze a girl's room and remind her that her friends are dead and she had messed up relationships with them." Sherlock actually looked a bit abashed, but I didn't get much time to marvel over that before Cameron began to speak.

"The summer before I turned fifteen, my parents were killed in a car crash. I was given to my too-conservative other aunt and uncle, who tried to tell me I couldn't like boys and girls. They thankfully didn't stay around the house much, and I just got more and more frustrated with them, for not taking care of me, and telling me I was going to go to hell if I didn't cleanse myself, and treating my friends like dirt, so I left to go to Tatum's house early in the school year.

"I just talked and talked for hours about it, and when I was finished, there was something in my head saying I wanted to kiss her. She'd always been there for me, through every piece of shit thrown at me, and I couldn't help myself. I kissed her." Cameron broke off, wiping away tears. "Tatum kissed me back, and it was okay."

She laughed a little, looking at Sherlock and I. "For some reason, I feel like I can tell you guys anything. That's so crazy, considering I met you, yesterday was it?"

"No," I said, shaking my head at her. "The moment I met Sherlock, I knew I could trust him. And look where we are now."

Sherlock looked at me in surprise. "You're being even more feelings-oriented than usual. Does your nightmare last night have something to do with it?"

I glared at him. "I'm allowed to have feelings, and so are you, you just insist you don't have them."

"That's because I don't," he said, his face a mask.

"You have feelings, Sherlock. Otherwise, why would you have let me stay with you at Baker Street for so long? You could scrape by with the rent, and you could go ahead and kill yourself with lack of sleep and food if you wanted to, but I'm still here."

"Similarly, you have to have a reason for staying. How many times have I left old experiments in the refrigerator or woken you up at 2 AM with my violin, or told your girlfriends their secret habits in front of you, or smoked in the flat? Why are you with me?"

"Because, I like you. I'm actually willing to admit that, and you're my best friend, so why wouldn't I stay with you?" That shut the genius right up. I didn't think I'd ever seen him speechless before, but I saw it now. We were both surprised, I thought, at how much we liked having the other one around. I knew Sherlock would never say it, and this was probably as good as it was going to get.

I smiled at him and at Cameron. "Thank you for telling us that, and for tolerating him. We'll be in touch." Cameron smirked and waved as I pulled Sherlock out the door.

He stopped once outside and stared down at the ground. "What is it?" I asked.

"I made you upset again, didn't I?" His voice didn't have the usual smarter-than-thou tone to it. He was asking a real question.

"You did, but then you made up for it." I paused. "I won't leave you, you know that, right?"

Sherlock looked up, a signature smirk dusting his face. "I know everything."

"Except the solar system," I quipped, hailing a cab and ignoring his tirade about that particular incident.

* * *

_Camille huffed an annoyed sigh. Those boys had no clue about anything. Even the supposed genius had completely idiotic moments, and this was one of them. She had been watching the whole thing, and had a feeling this whole affair might be drawn out for a while. "Cameron, how can you be friends with those imbeciles?" _

_Cameron shrugged, smiling a little. _


	4. Chapter 4

**The inevitable John-goes-on-a-date.**

* * *

"Sherlock!" I called from the sitting room. Bastard didn't answer. "Sherlock Holmes!"

"What is so important that you have to call me in my mind palace?" he asked irritably, not moving from wherever he was.

"I have a date tonight, and I need your half-honest opinion on how I look."

He huffed loudly, emerging from his bedroom. His dressing gown covered a neat navy shirt and trousers. "How am I supposed to know what women find attractive? Perceived beauty is a combination of childhood role models and..."

"Is it so hard to tell me if I look presentable?" I snapped, immediately regretting it. I didn't like snapping at him, it made me feel comparable to Donovan and Anderson.

He raised one of his multi-expression eyebrows. "You could use a nicer tie. That one doesn't go with your choice of shirt at all."

"Thank you." I started to walk back into my room to change my tie, but he stopped me.

"Why does me telling you your tie doesn't go with your shirt elicit a vocalization of gratitude?" Sherlock's head was tilted in his version of a curious question.

"Er, you helped me when I asked you to, so I said thank you. People do that all the time, haven't you noticed?" I passed him to enter my room.

He stayed silent while I showed him various ties, just swiping his hand if he didn't like them. Of course, he rejected every one of them, the prat. "I have one you can borrow," Sherlock said.

"Really? That would be great of you." He ignored me, striding out of the room to his own.

"Who is this woman you're meeting for dinner?" His voice had a strange tone to it, as if he actually cared.

"Her name is Joan. Mike set it up."

Sherlock shook his head, turning back toward me with a different tie. "Why must people go on so many dates? Dates are talking and hormones, and therefore tedious."

I stared at him, a smile forming on my face. "Talking is important. I listened to you talk to figure out if I liked you. It's the same way with other people. Plus, hormones are a part of life. Just because you suppress your feelings and hormones doesn't mean it's entirely ridiculous that many _don't_."

Sherlock gave me a look of John-you-are-a-complete-imbecile. "I am a high-functioning sociopath. I don't have _feelings._"

"Of course you have feelings." This again? "When Donovan calls you a freak, I can see it, it hurts you. When we're in the middle of a crazy chase and you're smiling, you're happy. It's that simple."

"Another reason I don't like dates: caring isn't an advantage, and because of that, it doesn't last long." I knew he wasn't going to budge, but at least I tried.

I tied my tie and looked at him again, hard. "I will always think caring is an advantage, because it brought me to you. And yes, I've had multiple dead-end girlfriends, but I won't stop looking. I want my life to mean as much as possible."

I grabbed my jacket and headed out the door to Baker Street, hoping Sherlock had gotten something, anything, out of that conversation.

* * *

Cameron turned her phone on, scrolling through her contacts. When she reached the one she was looking for, she pressed the Call button and waited.

"Hello," a vaguely annoyed voice answered.

"John's out, isn't he?"

There was a sense of surprise coming from the phone. "Yes, he just left."

"Good. I like him, but he needs a break sometimes."

"He's your favorite, obviously. So why are you calling me?"

"I found something you may want to see."

"See you in ten and a half minutes." The sound of the other phone being put down echoed through Cameron's speaker. She shut off her own phone and put it down, folding her arms to wait.

* * *

I was just sitting down at the table when an auburn-haired woman walked in. She seemed the type to put anyone at ease, and that made me more nervous.

"Hello," she said politely. "You must be John. Mike's told me a lot about you."

"Mike didn't tell me how pretty you are," I replied honestly.

Joan blushed lightly. "You must be quite the playboy."

I smiled. "Kind of. I just haven't found anyone right yet."

"Want to order something?" she asked.

"You first." From there, the date went well. Not terribly exciting, but slow was good sometimes. Joan worked as a maths teacher in a prep school. She hadn't been on a date in six months, and apparently she didn't mind that I was on crime scenes. It went better than some other dates I'd been on, when Sherlock...no, I wasn't supposed to think about him during a date.

I could feel my mind wander as the afternoon passed. Did Cameron notice anything about the murders that would help us? I knew Sherlock was concentrating hard on who could have killed the kids, but he would never share any of his theories, except that he was sure more than one person was involved. How he knew that, I didn't know.

"John?"

I looked up from the napkin that I'd been drawing arrows and writing random thoughts on. "Yes?"

"Your phone's ringing." I took the vibrating device from my pocket and slid the arrow on the screen to answer it.

"Hello?"

"John, you're not busy, right? Good, Cameron found something, and I need to vent thoughts to someone."

"Sherlock, you can't just assume I'm not busy if I'm on a date."

"Come to the place we found the third body." He ended the call.

I sighed, long and peeved. Did he always have to do that in the middle of dates? "You have to go, don't you?" Joan asked, oddly enough with a smile.

"Yes, he might kill someone, probably poor Cameron, if he doesn't spit out whatever it is that will solve the case."

We were silent for a moment before Joan said, "I can understand why you are leaving." I stared at her in questioning. "You would do anything for him, wouldn't you?"

My expression probably got more questioning. Joan got up from her chair, pulling her purse over her shoulder. "John, I don't think you need to look for the right person anymore. You've already found them."

"Who?" I asked.

She laughed, and it sounded like the way a grandmother laughs at her ignorant grandchildren. It wasn't mean, but it was very confusing. "Look around once in a while. I won't give you any more hints, but if I can see it, and I barely know you, than maybe someone more merciful will give you more clues."

"Sherlock's not good with those clues, so I can't ask him," I mused.

* * *

Sherlock was pacing the floor of the pot-smelling residence when I arrived. He ignored me for the first few moments I was there. Cameron put a finger to her lips and patted the spot next to her on Bryan's bed. I took it, waiting for the genius to come out of his mind palace and tell me what would make him explode.

"This proves it!" He spun in a circle, excited. "John, can't you see it?"

I shook my head. "What is it you wanted to show me?"

He began walking into the bathroom, expecting me to follow him. Inside was nothing special, just regular things, razor, soap, deodorant, meds, a vanity. Sherlock pointed to the sink, but I didn't see where he wanted me to look. "That tile on the floor there. It has writing on it, but not just writing."

I squatted down to look. The writing wasn't as jagged as you would expect something scratched into tile would be. In fact, it was fairly nice, but the message was a bit alarming. "I killed them to protect her."

"Indeed. This means that your friends were worse people than we originally thought, Kat," Sherlock said. Cameron rolled her eyes at him, but it was sadder than the gesture usually was.

"You can tell us," I told her. "We'll be able to find their killer much easier if you help."

She nodded. "A few months into sophomore year, Bryan started going to parties with Angelina. Tatum and I would come with every once in a while, just to get wasted. Curiosity killed the cat, and it kind of killed us.

"At one point, we were all doing random drugs regularly, Angelina and Bryan getting into it more than us. But that wasn't a problem, I thought. We were indestructible. No one could hurt us, we were all so high. However, once, Angelina and I had gotten a bit too high, and when we fell, well, we hit the ground hard. Overdosed, I woke up in the hospital, she didn't wake up at all. That message on the tile, it was on her bracelet, except it said, 'I killed her to protect Cam'.

"That was my first indication that these weren't suicides, someone killed my friends, and apparently they knew what was best for me.

"It was best for me," she said, in a different, colder tone.

"No, it wasn't, murder is still murder," I interjected before Cameron could convince herself otherwise.

She smiled ruefully. "I hate that I don't know what's better for me: to have the happiness with the crashes, or to live with the source of that gone. And murder may be still murder, but I might have to thank the killer."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's better to live without the happiness and the crashes. I should know."

"What would the famous Sherlock Holmes know about drugs?" Cameron's tone was fading back into the cold range it had been in earlier. That was strange. Normally, teenagers had mood swings, but this was different, more like a personality change. No, Cameron couldn't be like that. A bit dramatic, but nothing too unnatural.

"I was addicted to cocaine for most of young adulthood. I know what it's like to want the high and have it crush you. There are many reasons to let go of it; you'll find ways to live without the drugs and your friends." I heard that Sherlock was again disbelieving of the concept of friends by the way he spoke about them. I was starting to as well.

"I'll start with you two ignorant souls," Cameron said after a minute, smiling. "God knows I have nothing better than one detective and one doctor, both of which make me crazy when you stare at me blankly, not knowing at all what I'm talking about."

"I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock corrected.

"Oh, whatever." She flipped her hand in dismissal. I knew that made Sherlock a bit peeved, considering he was usually the one dismissing things, so I just hid my smile. Unsuccessfully. "You drive me crazy, maybe I'll have to do something about that."

"What are you talking about?" I asked. "I've already received evidence of something I don't know today, and now you're piling on." My tone was a joking one, but Cameron seemed to take it as an initiative.

She told us to stand up and follow her. Of course, we did.

Cameron took our hands and pulled us into a closet, shutting the door behind us. "Now, I'm not going to lock this, but you two aren't allowed to leave. You will talk to each other until you get an idea about what it is you're being called ignorant about. I'll wait until then, even if you never solve this case. Clear?"

It was very dark in there; I could barely see my hands stretched out in front of me, much less Sherlock. "Yeah, pretty clear. Sherlock?"

"I don't think this is relevant to the case, or us being your...friends."

I heard her laugh. "Oh believe me, it has everything to do with being my friends. And since the case has to do with other things you don't know, I think this might help you figure those other things out as well. I'll be here. Pretend I'm not if it's easier."

So there were Sherlock and I, shut in a pot-infested closet by a teenage girl that insisted we had missed something important. Netiher of us could see anything, and she had given us no hints. "Looks like we'll be here a while," I said, speaking to where I thought Sherlock was.

"Not if I can help it."

* * *

_Camille walked out the door of the coffee shop. "Did they even notice you'd left?" she asked Cameron. _

_She shook her head. "Idiots didn't hear me, too busy trying to figure it out." _

_"I'm glad you pushed them." Camille's face had broken into a seldom-seen smile. _

_"Hopefully I don't have to take more drastic measures."_

* * *

**John and Sherlock are _in the closet._ See you soon! **


	5. Chapter 5

**Back to our lovely pair in Bryan's closet.**

* * *

"So..."

"John, we are not here for unnecessary chatter."

"Alright then." I fell silent. I didn't understand how this was supposed to work. Cam had given us no clues at all as to what we needed to figure out, so I didn't really know what to do.

Maybe the fact that it was Sherlock and I in the closet had something to do with it. Cam said _both _of us were idiots, so maybe it had to do with the both of us together. Or not. The not was more possible.

The silence between us wasn't unnerving; we'd stayed quiet for hours on end sometimes on normal days in the flat: solving cases, him in his mind palace just as he was now, reading the paper, his hands under his chin like he was praying, though he'd never believe in religion. I usually watched telly or wrote on the blog, waiting for him to speak.

Somehow it wasn't crazy how my life revolved around him. No matter how many women I dated or how many times Sherlock and I had almost died, speeding through alleys and banking around street corners like badly driven cabs, I came back to him, one of the ex-girlfriends unable to let go. Not that I had that kind of relationship with him.

The man sitting next to me in the dark kept me thinking that I had something to live for. I would never be that man again that saw a desperate wraith in the mirror, even though Sherlock looked like that sometimes. He could be a wraith, a beautiful, dark creature with those black curls of his and the ice-colored eyes. Sherlock was the type to devour life, to not leave anything behind. He still had me however; he hadn't devoured me. He kept me _whole_.

_Alright, John, these are not the sort of thoughts you should be thinking. There's a case to be solved. _

_But it's true. _

My train of thought was going absolutely everywhere. I laughed at myself a little.

"John?" His voice had a real question in it. Funny, he never asked because he already knew most of the time.

"Yes?"

"Why're you laughing?"

He sounded like a child. A curious, unfettered by unhappiness child. I didn't think he could sound like that. "I'm laughing because my mind is strange. Not strange-smart, but strange in a way that won't help either of us."

Sherlock snorted. Now that sound was more familiar to me. It was the John-do-we-really-need-to-go-over-this-again snort. "Help comes from everywhere and nowhere. Spit it out, it might be something sensible. Because we know that sometimes you say what I think are ridiculous things, and then they end up mattering."

I grinned. "Mattering doesn't sound like it could be a word."

"Oh, get over yourself."

I took a deep breath before speaking, but before I could get it out..."You're taking too long."

"Shut it, Holmes." I paused. "You. Your silence and mind palace and I'll never go away without coming back. And there was another part about you being a wraith, and you haven't eaten me up like you do with all the other things, the cases and the danger that we get high on. We are...us, and that's about as detailed as my writer's brain can get. And that scares me a little." I hadn't thought about that last part, but it just came out. We weren't just colleagues or flatmates or acquaintances or friends, or even best friends, we were something else, but what it was I didn't know. His smarmy side would come out and say that was common, but I wouldn't care.

Holy crap. That was probably the most frightening thought of them all.

A half of a laugh left his mouth; of course I couldn't see it. "You called me Holmes."

"Is that all you have to say?" I asked incredulously.

"It's different. You are one of the only people that never ceases to surprise me." Sherlock paused. "The train of thought isn't very logical. Yours is very...random."

"Oh, thinking about you isn't random. It comes eventually," I muttered. I had a feeling he heard me, but instead of replying, he descended back into his mind palace. There was almost a noise that went with it, a sigh, or something of that caliber.

I fell into thought as well. The sooner we figured this out, the sooner we could get out of the darkness and get out of our minds. I just needed to get out.

* * *

Cameron calmly drank her coffee with a pinkie slightly raised out of habit. With her other hand, she checked her phone, waiting for a call from her _nice_ aunt. There were few people in the shop at this time in the afternoon; the one person she'd known had left a few minutes ago. Cam took another sip, and then realized she had accidentally kept her friend's drink. Oh well. She could ask Aunt Molly for something else.

The screen of her phone lit up with a picture of Cam and Molly on vacation in swimsuits. She smiled at the photo. Cam didn't really like selfies, but she'd been a victim of them more times than she would care to admit, and that picture was the result of that pathetic fact. She answered the phone, one hand still holding the weird-tasting coffee. "Hey! When can you get here?"

"I'm about five minutes out. This cabbie is inefficient, like this one guy that John and Sherlock dealt with."

"What happened to him?"

"Rumor has it that John killed him for Sherlock. The guy was about to make Sherlock take a pill with some nasty stuff in it, he'd killed four people before that already, and they say John showed up and shot the guy. There's no proof, otherwise John would be convicted, but everyone knows."

"You'll never guess where the boys are right now." Cam tried to keep her laughter down.

Molly groaned. "What have you done with them?"

"They may or may not be locked in a closet in Bryan's bedroom, thinking about the part of the case they're missing, and of the two's _relationship._ I'm convinced I'll have to get a broom and whack some sense into them. God."

"Theory?"

"Not a theory. Truth."

The pathologist sighed. "I want to hear this in person."

Cam clicked her phone off. Molly would understand. Her aunt could be a hell of a lot smarter than the duo in the closet: she actually listened to Cam when she said important things. She took a deep gulp of coffee and waited for the damn cabbie to get off Google Earth.

* * *

"Sherlock?" I asked.

"Yes, John?"

"Do you have anything?"

A period of silence followed. "We'll be in here a while, I have come to terms with that, so I haven't been thinking about that particular thing...no."

I huffed. "Really? Seriously?"

"Why wouldn't I be serious? I'm not the type to not be serious."

"Well then, what have you been thinking about? You asked earlier, now I get to ask."

"Does it matter?" I might have been wrong, but did I sense a tone of embarrassment?

"Spill. Now."

"I was wondering if you'd move closer. I can't feel anything but your feet, and that doesn't make this situation any better."

"Sure. Is that it?"

"You make it sound...normal."

"Your overthinking is stupid." I inched forward slowly as to not scare him, like he was a stray animal I'd found on the street. My hands felt their way, and I tried to avoid touching him, but in the dark, I made a couple mistakes.

"That's my thigh." Strained; I didn't know if I had heard him like that.

"Sorry." I fumbled my hands further up, awkwardly crawling over toward him. I eventually felt his side and reoriented myself so his side and mine were next to each other. "Better?"

His fingers brushed my cheek. They felt freezing and alien, fingers that didn't brush living skin very often, and they made my face heat up a little. "That's your face, correct?"

I unconsciously reached up to feel where he'd touched, but his hand hadn't moved far. "And that's your hand."

"Right." Our hands were clasped together, his thin and callused only on the fingertips. Neither one of us moved away. It was oddly comforting, having his hand in mine. Normal, like we did this all the time, squeezing it in spaces barely big enough to fit it. Literally, since we were in a small closet. But not literally as well.

I leaned my head over to place on his shoulder, settling down. "Was there any reason why you wanted me closer?"

Sherlock didn't speak for a moment, placing our joined hands between us, mostly on my leg instead of his. "The smell and the dark reminds me of the places I used to frequent, back when cocaine was my mistress. You are the exact opposite of that, so I hoped for some sort of counteraction."

I nodded again his shoulder. "That makes sense. When you play on your violin before I sleep, it drives away the war dreams. Except when you're in them, but that only happened once."

"When was that?"

"None of your business, _detective_." I could hear the drowsiness coming.

"Alright. Are you going to sleep on me?"

"That seems quite likely."

There was a pause that didn't weigh much compared to the other silences we've had. "Can I ask you a question, John?"

"Of course." My eyes slid shut; not that it made much difference in the light.

"Do you really think about me?" Sherlock seemed nervous, but that was impossible.

"Always. I think about you a...all the time. Even when I don't want to."

* * *

John fell asleep on Sherlock, head slipping down to his chest, and he had to gently move the doctor to his former position. Sherlock had never known John to be to tired before; they were just in a dark space, he didn't understand how that would affect the sleep centers of the brain. At least he'd be able to think clearly for a while.

Suddenly a thought came to the genius. If all the victims had been killed by a concentration of KCl, where were the syringes used to administer it? All the victims died within 24 hours of the others, meaning the timing was important, so what time did it make sense to dispose of the syringes? They were all found only about a half hour after death, by Cameron herself, so she could be tied to the deaths in some way.

Wait.

Time of death was 20 minutes before the mail is picked up. Body is found a half hour later, Cameron sees it and calls the police, she's there when they arrive. Where did the killer go? How did Cameron know where to be to tell the police where the body was? There were too many coincidences all added up.

Sherlock had a theory from the beginning that the murders were committed by a pair, one as the bait, one as the actual killer, the killer evacuates the premises to place the syringe in the mail, leaves behind the accomplice to watch for people, Cameron calls the police once the killer is a safe distance away.

But Cameron obviously didn't know who the killer was. Oh, that didn't matter, there were signs that pointed to someone. Who 'cared' about Cameron enough to kill her friends because they spiraled her down? Cameron herself was a suspect, of course, Molly? No, she wouldn't...

_Something I'm missing_.

Cameron had someone else, someone no one knew about, or if they knew, they were dead. _Dead men tell no tales_. The room, someone lived there that wasn't just Cameron, she had a look in her eyes when she said she was alone. She wasn't alone, she didn't just have the consulting detective and the army doctor and her aunt Molly, there was someone else. A friend.

_Sherlock, leave it alone for a time_, said a voice that sounded a lot like John's.

Did John really think about Sherlock all the time? That had never happened before; Sherlock, for once, wasn't sure how to perceive that.

_Sherlock_, the voice admonished. _Leave it be. _

Sherlock knew he'd never been crazy, no matter what people said about him, but this was new.

_Fine,_ he conceded.

_Sleep, John won't mind. He really doesn't care; he knows you won't hurt him. _Sherlock closed his eyes. Not like it mattered.

* * *

_Camille smiled. "Those two are so cute sleeping there together! I wonder how long it took Sherlock to finally give into it." _

_"Ha! Forever," Cameron said. "I'm starting to think John will get a lightbulb moment first." _

_Camille just shrugged. "He's the one that doesn't suppress his feelings, but Sherlock is actually smarter." _

_"Oh shut up. John will notice."_


	6. Chapter 6

**Aw. John and Sherlock are actually sleeping.**

* * *

"Hey boys!" a girl's voice shouted into the room.

I jolted awake, hitting Sherlock under the chin. "God, John, you didn't have to wake me that rudely."

"My apologies," I said irritably.

"Find anything _enlightening_? I would love to hear it."

Sherlock didn't speak for a moment. "Can you please open the closet door, not being able to see the person talking to me is aggravating, and can you get a hold of your friend that you haven't told us about?"

"I was going to open the door anyway," she muttered. As she slid it open, I looked up at Sherlock, whose curls had become a mess about his head, and eyes lacking shadows under them. Our hands were laced together still, and we were very close, almost closer than two shots in a round. It would have been too close, but...I didn't know, this seemed right.

"Now what's this about a friend I didn't tell you of?" Cameron had one hand on her hip, a coffee in the other.

"Wait a second, when did you leave?" I asked, pointing a finger at her.

She just smiled. "I don't need to tell you my whereabouts. If you didn't hear me leave, then that's your problem."

"You mood swung rather fast since we saw you earlier. Do all teenagers have that kind of thing?" Sherlock asked drily.

Cameron glared at him. "My mood isn't swinging, Mr. I-had-to-be-locked-in-a-closet-by-a-girl-because-I'm-stupid."

We shot each other a look that said, _Okay, her mood is definitely swinging._

"Now that we've got that out of the way, what friend?" She took a gulp of coffee.

Sherlock stared up at her like a cat stares up at its owner with boredom. "The murders could only have been committed by two people, a murderer and an accomplice. One was used as bait and to watch out for people apt to be snooping, while the other killed the victims and disposed of the murder weapon. You were already a suspect, given you had quite a bit to gain from their deaths, but you didn't kill them, so we could assume someone else did. Another person lives in your room besides you, there are obviously two residents from the split personality of the space, so I just need to know who, and then this whole case will be over and done with." He paused. "Are you satisfied enough to let us out?"

Cameron was speechless, her mouth opening and closing with no words leaving it. "Sherlock, we need to leave her alone for a bit," I prodded. "We don't know she did anything until it's proven. Plus, we have somewhere to be."

"Where, exactly?"

I stared up at him with an eyebrow raised. "Oh yes, _dinner_." Sherlock huffed. "But eating is boring, especially when we've been there so many times."

I carefully reoriented myself to stand up, holding out my hand to help up Sherlock. "It doesn't matter." To Cameron, I said, "I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "It's okay. I knew I was a suspect, but I can assure you I didn't do it if it makes you feel any better."

"Thanks." I yanked the genius with me out of Bryan's room, trying to ignore the other change: Cameron's mood.

Once we were a safe distance away (in a cab, I didn't want to take any chances), Sherlock said, "That was supposed to be a bluff, correct?"

I nodded. "And you played it right. Impressive."

"Did you actually have plans for dinner?"

"Er, no. And I know you don't have any, so how about Angelo's?"

"Why not?" He smiled. I felt a tingly feeling enter my limbs. "Finally, something I can use in this case! The killer is still smart though, how refreshing."

I gave the address to the cabbie, and then sat back in my seat, rubbing my arms and legs to get the tingles out. Sherlock gave me a funny look, but he didn't understand my situation. My situation, why would Sherlock make me feel like that without even touching me?

* * *

Angelo put a candle in front of us when we first ordered. "He still insists we're dating," Sherlock mused.

"Everyone thinks we're dating," I replied.

He looked at me like I'd grown another head. "Really? Why would they think that?"

I sighed. "We're always together, we share a flat, you tolerate me much more than other people, I tolerate _you_, which is often more surprising. I don't know, there's probably other things as well."

"That isn't enough evidence to reach a logical conclusion that we're romantically involved. Lots of people share flats for monetary purposes only. Plus, you're my blogger, so you need to be there for cases." Sherlock obviously didn't get this.

"Explain the people that don't know us then. How do they think we're dating if they just assume it from seeing us once?" I asked.

He didn't say anything. "Yeah, that's what I thought. It doesn't make sense, but it's a part of life."

Angelo came back with our food right about then. "Here you go, boys. Enjoy!"

I smiled and thanked him, prodding Sherlock to do the same with my finger. Sherlock just stared at me, completely unaware of what I was trying to do. Annoyed, I ran a finger over his knuckles, attempting to make him uncomfortable enough to say something. A warm buzz entered my head with the contact. I could feel my face heat up, but that was ridiculous, because this I only felt when...Ah, nope. Not going to go there. The buzz got heavier, enveloping my vision until it only covered Sherlock's pale, white hand, and mine, running in circles now over the back of his hand. Sherlock's eyes were closed for some reason. I hoped (no, I didn't) that it was from the buzz I was feeling. It was heady, familiar, yet different and stronger. Stronger.

That scared me.

Angelo gave me a wink as he walked away, and I resisted the urge to go and punch him, like he was making fun of the incredible state of confusion I was in. But it wasn't his fault; he had nothing to do with it. Sherlock had opened his eyes, a quizzical look in them. I began pulling my hand away, but before it got very far, Sherlock asked, "Why did you do that?"

I couldn't look him in the eye. My gaze was on his hand on the table, flat and just as pale. Upturned. Hadn't I gotten the back of his hand? Upturned, his palm open, as if he subconsciously expected something to happen. "I don't know." The answer wasn't the truth, and I thought he knew that, but he didn't say anything further. I wouldn't have known what to say back.

I knew why I'd ran my fingers over his hand. Because _I wanted to_.

* * *

We finished our meal in silence, and it wasn't a warm or normal silence when the two of us were in the flat or poring over a case, this was the silence of not knowing what to say.

Once we got back to the flat, I made myself a cup of tea. I seriously needed the soothing quality of the drink. I made one for Sherlock too, just the way he liked it, and placed it on the coffee table next to his violin case. Heading into my room, I sat down on the bed with a flop and put my head in my hands, setting the tea down next to me.

This was crazy. Sherlock was my friend, and I was not feeling anything beyond friendship for him. Yes, we'd saved one another countless times, and yes, I would leave any of my dates if he needed me, and yes, we'd slept in a closet with our hands clasped together, but that didn't mean anything.

_Denial. Always the first step_.

No, I wasn't denying anything, there was nothing to deny. Sherlock was my best friend, nothing more. Okay, maybe that had hurt a little on the way into my train of thought, but so what? I was not in love with Sherlock Holmes, he was a genius at best and a self-destructive prat at worst.

_But how did it feel to touch him? To hear his voice? Look in his eyes? _

Intoxicating.

Damn.

But that didn't mean I was in love with him. I would do anything and everything if he asked, but wasn't that just...

_Love. It's love. _

But, I was not gay. I'd dated far too many women to be gay. I couldn't feel that way about Sherlock, because that wasn't how my body worked.

_You are a stubborn git! Stop the unnecessary chatter and admit it already! _

Fine.

I was in love with Sherlock Holmes. I loved his curly hair and his bloody cheekbones and the sound of his voice and his deductions and how he kept me around, and his _eyes._ His small smiles and ignorance about feelings and skin that seemed colder than the snow in London and violin playing at 3:00 AM and the way he said my name. God, I sounded like a teenager. Oh, who gave a damn?

I was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Sherlock sat on the couch, his head perched neatly on top of his hands. John had seemed distressed when they'd gotten back to the flat, had made some tea, a nervous habit, Sherlock was sure, and left a cup for him before going into his room and shutting the door. It felt strangely...something Sherlock barely had a word for. He'd deleted it from his mind palace many times, but maybe it had stuck somewhere.

Lonely. When John wasn't in the vicinity, it felt boring, tedious, but mostly lonely. John was interesting, a spike of energy and life where there hadn't been any before. Beauty, if he cared about such things.

But now, he was coming in again. The air immediately warmed, making the space more comfortable. John was smiling lightly, like he was laughing at himself. "Sherlock, can you say something? I really don't care what it is."

Sherlock had no idea where that thought had come from in John's mind, but answered, "I'm considering calling the maker of the newest James Bond movie that you're so fond of and asking whether the plot was written by ADHD teenagers off their medications."

John laughed, and Sherlock couldn't help but think what a melodious sound it was. "Why was that needed?" Sherlock asked, picking up his tea.

"I just needed a theory proved. Thanks for your assistance." John grabbed his coat and was on his way out again when Sherlock made a noise of disapproval. "I'm just going to get more information for my hypothesis."

Sherlock huffed and continued drinking his cuppa, wondering what on earth he could be hypothesizing.

* * *

"Hey, Cameron. Can we talk over coffee?" I asked, holding the phone with my shoulder.

"Sure, what's the occasion?" Cameron seemed to have gotten her good mood back.

"I made a discovery today, and I have a feeling I know why you locked us in a closet."

I could almost hear her grin through the device. "So, it's really Sherlock that's the idiot, and not you. Lovely! Where do you want to meet?"

I listed off the name of a shop and the address. "Smashing, I'll be there as soon as I get a cab."

* * *

She came in, a giggle forming on her lips. "Oh, our John has a crush!"

I glared at her. "It's not funny! And you knew, how did you know?"

"It's the way you two look at each other. And I did some snooping, turns out everyone in the Yard has noticed too!"

I groaned. "So the Yard and your aunt know I'm in love with Sherlock?"

She kept her lips shut, but burst out eventually, "I knew it was love, and not just liking! Point, Cameron!"

"Alright, let's not let all of England know," I chided.

Cameron grinned. "What are you going to do about it?"

"No idea."

* * *

_Camille walked to the mailbox the next morning, hoping for a note from her provider. He'd been very helpful in letting her have some supplies she needed, and she was waiting for him to tell her what she would give in return. Camille hoped it wasn't anything too big; she had a life to keep going. _

_The red flag was down, so the mailman had come, but what was in it, Camille didn't know. With him, it could be any item at all. His moods were more changeable than her own. _

_She pulled out an envelope with the letters JM on the return postage. Her fingers were shaking as she opened it up, but she was relieved when she read what was inside. Nothing too difficult. _

* * *

**Camille's under Moriarty! Yep, I just did that! **


	7. Chapter 7

**I promise you, stuff will happen this chapter. It really will. **

* * *

I woke up to the sound of violent keyboard tapping. _Sherlock's trying to get into my laptop again_, I thought, rolling ungracefully out of bed. I had to catch him in the act.

"Sherlock?" I called into the sitting room. He didn't answer, just typed faster, cursing under his breath when he failed.

"You know, you can _ask _if you need my laptop," I said, folding my arms and looking down at him. His hair was an absolute mess, something birds could have nested in, and he had on a dressing gown and pajamas. He hadn't bothered to get himself breakfast, and yet, he searched for information. I smiled a little.

"Asking takes time and is therefore tedious." His expression didn't change through that whole exchange.

"Well, it's nice if you do." I sat down next to him and took the laptop, my hands brushing his thighs. I would like to say I didn't blush, but I probably did. I turned the screen away from Sherlock, in an attempt to hide it from him, and quickly typed in my password. I knew he was tracking my keystrokes, but I was beyond caring about that. If he wanted to delve into this one aspect of me, it would be to his ultimate wish that he didn't, or wish that he could figure it out faster.

I turned the computer screen back toward him and asked, "Now, what do you need it for?"

"I'm looking up all those that Cameron has had familial, platonic, romantic, or otherwise relationships with. There's someone she hasn't told us about, and they are important to the case. She's willing to protect this person, whoever they may be, and that means exactly how vital they are. The problem is getting access to the data." He began into a site and typed some gibberish that I assumed was code, and then threw his hands in the air. "I've done it. Now for the fun part."

"Looking through details about a girl's personal life is _fun_?"

He looked at me with one of the John-you-are-a-complete-imbecile looks. "This case is fun, and by extension, this is as well."

"Especially since it's half legal," I muttered. Sherlock ignored me, scrolling through page after page of information.

"Parents, dead; guardians, away on a trip; Molly, nothing to do with the case; ah, known friends/acquaintances. Tatum, dead; Bryan, dead; Angelina, dead; John, there's no one else." Sherlock moved his hand restlessly on the chair arm. "There is not a single other person with anything to do with case that isn't on here. We have to be missing something."

"Are you sure? The website might not be updated."

Again with the demeaning look. "It's illegal, of course it's updated." He handed the laptop to me and stood up, beginning to pace. "This person doesn't have records, so they might be new to the country, but Cameron isn't easily trusting, so they have been here for a while. Immigrant, perhaps? Cameron protects them just as they protect her."

I set down the computer and carefully put a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock seemed startled, but didn't move to push me away. I felt a slight warmth because of that, but tried to choke it out. "All of this would be easier to think about on a full stomach. Breakfast is way better for you than you'll admit."

I walked into the kitchen and began to make some toast, making sure everything was clean before I used it. He followed me after a few minutes, sitting down and letting out a huff of impatience and frustration. "I feel like this case is..._important_. I have no sense of fate, but this matters, in some way."

I nodded, putting a plate of toast in front of the detective. He stared at me for a second. "There's something different about you today. Why?"

* * *

Sherlock was hitting a dead end with the laptop. John changed his password again, and he had no idea what it could be. The usual, Afghanistan and sometimes Bugger Off when John actually realized Sherlock had been on the device, was absent. He'd tried many combinations of capital and lowercase letters, even alternate spellings, but nothing worked. And Sherlock was slowly losing his mind over it.

After an hour of typing rapidly, John entered the sitting room in his pajamas, a calm, beatific smile on his face. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't answer him, too busy with his attempts.

"You know, you can _ask_ if you need my laptop." John didn't seem particularly upset, as he usually was when Sherlock did this. In fact, he looked like he was going to _hug_ Sherlock. Oddly enough, that didn't elicit a reaction of disgust from the genius.

"Asking takes time, and is therefore tedious."

"Well, it's nice if you do." He sat down next to Sherlock, and took the laptop from him. His hands briefly stroked the fabric covering Sherlock's thighs, and he shivered at the contact. The temperature in the room rose a few degrees, Sherlock thought, but maybe that was just the heater turning on. John bothered to flip the computer away from Sherlock, but he could see perfectly well.

The password was his name: sHERLOCKhOLMES.

The toggle case was different, something he'd never known John to do, but this wasn't what perplexed Sherlock the most. Why use _his_ name? Why not one of his previous girlfriends' names? Why was Sherlock, he squirmed to think the word, _special _enough for this?

John's expression didn't change while Sherlock explained his theories and paced about the area, but he moved to put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. John's hand was warm, shooting bolts of something foreign through his veins. He was used to certain things shooting through his veins, but not whatever this was. He actually _liked_ it, and that...frightened him.

"All of this would be easier to think about on a full stomach. Breakfast is way better for you than you'll admit." John headed into the kitchen and cleaned everything before making toast. Sherlock knew that he wouldn't be able to eat a lot, but it was worth making John happy.

"I feel like this case is _important_." Sherlock said, sighing. "I have no sense of fate, but this matters, in some way." John responded with a nod, engrossed in the conversation. Now, this had become strange. John had been so affectionate lately: blushing, brushing his fingers over Sherlock's hand or thigh or arm, that hand-holding in the closet (that Sherlock hadn't wanted to pull away from), and other signs. It wasn't altogether unpleasant, on the contrary, it felt right, but it wasn't normal.

"There's something different about you today. Why?"

* * *

I gazed at him for a moment, trying to decide how much of the truth to tell. I was scared that if I told him now, he would leave me, and I wouldn't be able to go back to any sort of life again. Sherlock could be unpredictable sometimes, and I hoped that it wouldn't backfire on me. Frightened. It had been so long. "I've had a revelation, and because of that, I guess I'm acting differently."

Sherlock gave his dubious look and replied, "What revelation makes you so..." he paused, "so happy?"

He suddenly shook his head. "Not that you being happy is unnatural or wrong, just...er...you're far more happy than usual, and..."

I grinned. "It's okay. Nothing is wrong with me, no deaths, I'm fine. But you seem...are you alright?"

Sherlock nodded vigorously. "I am perfectly fine. See, I'm eating." He took a bite of his toast and chewed quickly, swallowing and taking another bite.

I barely rolled my eyes. "I'm going to go to work. Text if you need something." My hands were tingling like crazy, but I tried extremely hard to ignore it as I stepped out the door. However, I didn't make it two steps before I noticed jelly on the corner of Sherlock's lip. Of course, I walked back and wiped it away with my thumb.

Sherlock went still under my finger. I touched his lips though, so I wasn't paying attention to how he looking at me. His lips were soft and smooth, a bow shape. I couldn't help but run my thumb all the way over the peaks and valleys. Beautiful. Too beautiful.

I grabbed my bag and left the kitchen, chastising myself at how stupid I'd been. He was Sherlock Holmes, he would figure it out soon enough. I loved him, and it was getting harder and harder to pretend like I didn't.

* * *

Cameron snuck a glance at her phone during her meeting with the therapist. No calls from John. She cursed under her breath, making sure the 40ish woman couldn't hear her. The man needed to get a move on! She knew Sherlock had feelings for him too, he just needed to speak first. Idiot men.

"Now, how is the investigation coming along?" the doctor asked, holding her clipboard professionally.

"Sherlock Holmes and his partner Dr. John Watson are on it. They've been doing their best, and John and I get on very well." Cam smiled.

The therapist actually looked concerned. "Too well?"

Cam glared hard at her. "No. I'm helping him with his love problems. There's this person that he likes, and I'm helping him figure out how to ask them out."

She nodded. "Alright. And did you make any progress with the other thing?"

Cameron knew to lie. "Yes. It's almost gone."

"Because you know you can use the medication to help."

"No. I don't need it."

The therapist gave Cameron a disapproving stare, but she ignored it in favor of checking her phone again. Not finding anything, she set it back down, but it started playing "Live For The Night" by Krewella.

"Yep, this is Cam."

"John hasn't come back from work. Where is he?" Sherlock. Of course, she was one of the people he'd call.

"I don't know. I've been waiting for him to call since..."

"What?"

"Nothing," Cam stammered. "So, what happened?"

"He told me he'd be back to the flat two hours ago. We don't need anything from Tesco, so I called the clinic, and they said he'd left at his normal time. Where did he go?" Sherlock paused, as if afraid to say another word. "I'm worried about him. Something isn't right."

Two hours. John had been missing that long. For some obscure reason, this news was familiar to Cameron, but that was impossible. She couldn't know where he was.

"Sorry, he's not with me."

Sherlock huffed and hung up. Cameron locked her phone and looked up. "We should continue this session later. I have a friend to look for." Before the therapist could reply, Cam had put on her jacket and walked out of the room. But she knew where she was going.

* * *

I jolted into wakefulness. There was a horrid buzzing in my ears, and my head felt like it was going to explode. I knew I hadn't drank any alcohol, so the hangover symptoms were strange. When I could see, I noticed how barren the room was. The walls were beige, and the ceiling was beige, and the door was locked. I couldn't move; someone had tied me up with some good knots. As far as I knew, feeling up and down my body, I wasn't injured and nothing had been stolen. Why had someone captured me then?

I heard fumbling at the door, the sound of a lock turning. A girl entered the room, pulling down the hood on her jacket. Her hair formed a deep brown curtain around her face, a wavy mass not unlike Sherlock's. When she spun to face me, I recognized her.

"Cameron?"

"Cameron cannot answer your call right now." There was a slight smirk on her features. "Leave a message at the beep. Beep."

"Who are you then?"

"My name is Camille. Cameron and I share her."

* * *

_Sherlock paced the flat restlessly, considering dialing the imbeciles at the Yard to help him look for John, but then scrapping the idea. He was 'wearing a hole in the floor' as John sometimes said, but he was beyond caring about that. _

_This was abnormal. A situation like this did not entail walking back and forth a thousand times, no, it had been one thousand twenty-four, but Sherlock knew subconsciously that all was not well. John wasn't going to come home unless Sherlock did something about it. _

_He grabbed his coat and turned up the collar messily, wrapping his scarf around his neck and rushing down the stairs. "Sherlock, dear?" Mrs. Hudson called. _

_He sighed impatiently. "What is it?" _

_"You have mail. Fancy red seal, too." Sherlock took the letter, barely analyzing it. He ripped it open, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's disapproving glance. Inside: a tiny bottle labeled 'chloroform', an address. At the bottom were the letters JM. _

_Sherlock was gone. _


	8. Chapter 8

**The fun comes now.**

* * *

There was probably a very ridiculous look on my face. "What the hell do you mean, you _share_?"

Camille looked exasperated. "Do I have to tell this story? Cameron doesn't like it."

I nodded vigorously. "It is absolutely essential that you tell me this story. I apologize to Cameron."

She sighed deeply. "Did she tell you that her parents died?"

"Yes."

"The day her parents died, she felt very lost, so much that she thought life had no meaning. There was a small part of her that believed she would live if she pushed through, and she nurtured it, thinking it would help. Well, Cameron nurtured it so much that it became something separate. I am that part.

"I was created to protect her, and I tried to do my job. When her aunt and uncle treated her like shit, I was there to block her ears. I was the one who absorbed it when she got high too many times. We've been together for years now, I can't believe no one figured it out." She shook her head. "Cameron is alive because I'm here. I love her, and I don't want her hurt.

"Her _friends_," Camille spat the word, "didn't feel the same way I did. Instead of helping her be a good person, they tossed her life away, and I couldn't let them.

"Cameron is very attached, have you noticed? When she holds on to something, she never lets go of it. Much like you and your detective friend. She would never ever do anything to hurt them, even if they were hurting her."

"Did you take it upon yourself? To kill them?" I asked sadly. I knew how it felt to do anything for someone. Where was Sherlock? I missed him. He'd be so vindictive.

"What other choice did I have? Cameron is my one and only priority, and that can never be jeopardized."

For some reason, I didn't feel disgusted or angry at Camille. She reminded me of me. Loyal to the point of shooting a cabbie. "How did it all happen?"

Camille huffed. "I thought it was such a brilliant plan. Next time one of them was alone with Cameron, I would take control without letting her know and kill them with an easily hidden weapon that couldn't be traced back to me. She was bait of some sort, but it had to be that way." And Sherlock was right. There was a killer and bait.

"The problem was what to kill them with. Difficult, isn't it? I actually consulted someone, and they gave me the idea to use KCl, what is used on criminals on death row as part of the lethal injection. He's quite amazing really. He even let me have some of his stock under the condition that I do one little thing for him. Of course I agreed.

"The murders happened like this. I started with Angelina..."

* * *

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the seat of the cab in an approximation of Beethoven's 5th symphony's rhythm. It drove the cabbie crazy, but Sherlock wasn't the type to care. _John. Captured. Find him. _

The genius's thoughts scattered at every mention of John, knowing that every part of him would fragment if he died. His mind palace would fall into complete disarray, facts displaced into a mess, memories exploding and flying away. And John would be dead.

Sherlock refused to entertain the notion for long.

"Should I let you off here?" the cabbie asked impatiently. The man seemed to purposely not listen and annoy him.

"Alright, get out." The cab stopped abruptly, throwing Sherlock slightly forward. "I mean it. And pay me a bit extra."

The detective threw a few pound notes at the cabbie, not bothering to count them, and exited the cab with the vengeance of a man wronged. As the cabbie looked at the money, he noticed exactly how off the strange man was. Ten more pounds added to the cabbie's pocket.

Sherlock stormed up the building's steps, kicking the door down ruthlessly. _John. Stay...functional for a little while longer. _

* * *

"Angelina was responsible for the most damage done to Cameron. Drugs, alcohol, horrible things said on the Internet, I'd had enough. At a party, I made sure to partially take control, leading her to an empty room with few possible witnesses. She was falling asleep in a chair when I did it. I assumed she would think it was more drugs, but when I was done, her heart had stopped." Camille hissed. "Like she had one in the first place.

"I dragged her out once I knew she was gone, put her in the passenger seat of the car. The syringe needed to go back to the guy I'd gotten it from, and Cameron needed to call the police. I drove to the post office, trying to ignore the drugs in my system. Cameron would need attention, but I couldn't do it then. As soon as I knew the mail truck was arriving, I put my envelope in, rushed back to the car and parked near the house where she'd been before.

"The first thing Cameron does when she comes back is calls the ambulance, just as I knew she would." A sad smile formed on the features that were Cameron's but not filled by her. "It wasn't an elaborate plan, like what Sherlock thought it was. I borrowed the potassium chloride, I killed three people, I sent the syringes back, Cameron awoke fast enough to call the police. Simple."

I stared at her for a minute. Camille was more complex than Cam. She was born to keep Cameron alive, and she had lived with her for years in the same body that had given her life. After figuring out how much Cam's 'friends' were killing her, she made a plan to kill them. But why kill Tatum? Cameron had been in love with her.

"Tatum?" I asked.

Camille shook her head. "She had been cheating on Cameron with Bryan for three months. They actually laughed about it a few times within my earshot. Cameron found out five days before Angelina died. It crushed her, John. I couldn't just let it happen."

I had one last question. "Does Cam know?"

"No." It came out as a soft breath. "I can't tell her I killed them. She would be devastated."

I sighed. Why did this have to be so complicated? "So, any reason for tying me up and kidnapping me?"

Camille laughed, a short burst of sound. "That wasn't my idea. You know how I had to give a payment for using the KCl? Well, the instructions were pretty specific, and it involved kidnapping you, tying you up, and not harming you. When Sherlock came, I was supposed to leave, but not before giving you this note to give to him." She held out an envelope sealed with red wax. "I should head out. Tell Holmes hello for me."

She pulled up her hood again, shook my hand, one of the only movable things I had, and left, taping the letter to the back of my head. "I hope our next meeting is more pleasant than this," Camille said, her voice almost cutting off as she went out the door.

* * *

Sherlock ran through the house, searching every nook and cranny. John had to be somewhere. When he reached the third door he saw, he turned the knob and opened it.

* * *

Moriarty laughed loudly from his surveillance room. Camille hadn't overestimated John and Sherlock's relationship, and right here was the proof! Sherlock was tearing up the place looking for his beloved John. Oh, he was so boring, but he was fun to watch.

John waited like the perfect little hostage he was, still tied up. Dear Camille had done her job! But stupid, stupid John didn't do a thing. At least he should have somewhat unraveled his bonds. Ugh, what idiocy.

Now, Sherlock had found the door behind which sat his love, but Sherlock wasn't going to admit it, of course. That's why Jim had to give him a bit of _help_. "Even geniuses need assistance." Moriarty enunciated the last word, even though no one could hear him. "Let's see how accurate my prediction was, shall we?"

* * *

Suddenly, there was a click as the door to the room opened. I looked up, thinking Camille had come back to tell me something else, but it was the one person that I wanted, no, needed to see.

"Sherlock," I breathed. His eyes were wild, his hands distracted. He stared at me for half a moment before running over. Sherlock hovered, but didn't come too close. I could almost hear his thoughts: tied up, no visible injury, alive, no one around. I hadn't been hurt.

"Do you know who did this? We can catch them if we hurry," he blurted. "I can untie you and we can go now."

"Sherlock," I breathed, quieter this time.

"Yes?" he asked, looking up from the knots he was working at.

"Thank you for coming for me." Sherlock didn't look at me, finishing the knots. When he finally looked up, his face had an expression that I'd never seen on it.

"I will always come for you. No matter what, I will never leave you behind." He took my hand to pull me up, and I shivered at how cold it was. But he didn't move to get out of the house. Sherlock and I just stood there, hands entwined, eyes locked. And I wanted something.

Carefully, I came closer, like someone trying to sneak into a room. Sherlock didn't react beyond the slight closing of his eyes. They were half-lidded, as if he was tired. I just barely reached my head up to touch my lips to his.

His lips were soft. Cigarette smoke lingered on them, and some fuzzy place in my mind wondered how he'd found the packet again. I knew I'd have to pull away soon, but I could let myself drown in it for a little while longer.

_Just drown. _

And so I did.

We broke apart slowly, me opening my eyes just enough to see his reaction. His pupils were blown wide, lips almost pink, eyelashes fluttering in...confusion.

"John..." Sherlock paused. "What...what was that?"

I couldn't answer him right away. Of course he didn't understand it. If the solar system couldn't remain in his head, why would a kiss mean anything?

"We...can pretend it didn't happen, if you don't want to...to think about it," I replied.

Sherlock nodded, still dazed-looking. "Let's get a cab and get out of here." He let go of my hand and began walking out, asking, "Did you get information on the case?"

I let out a painful breath, then breathed in, making sure he didn't hear how choked it was. "The murderer was Cameron's alternate personality, created to protect her when she was younger..."

* * *

Moriarty laughed, long and hard. Sherlock had become interesting again! Such conflict, such pain between the two! It was gorgeous!

When they kissed, he knew Sherlock would ignore it, and it happened. He couldn't wait until he read the lovely note he'd left. Camille was kind enough to put it on the back of John's head, where he wasn't likely to notice it. But Sherlock would find it, and the game would be on!

Jim never got tired of this. But he wasn't likely to live much longer, because life had gotten too boring. "If I go down, you will come with me, my dear Sherlock."

* * *

Sherlock listened to the entire story of the murders, stopping to laugh for every time he'd been correct. Before he hailed a cab, however, he noticed something strange. There were black cameras on every corner of the house where John had been held. The room had them as well, he assumed, considering the placement of the chair in the room. But why?

He looked back, squinting at the red dots flashing on the black, mechanical bodies. Someone was watching them.

John walked ahead of him, and he saw an envelope sealed with red wax taped to it. Ignoring John's verbal expression of annoyance, though it was strangely tainted with pain, he grabbed the letter and slipped it into his coat.

"What the hell was that for?" he asked indignantly.

"What's this?" Sherlock answered.

John tilted his head, considering it. "Camille said it was for you."

Once the two got back to 221B, Sherlock cut the wax and waited until John was out of the sitting room to read it. He slid the letter from the envelope, unfolding it. What he saw scared him more than anything.

I'll burn the heart out of you. JM. A heart was drawn next to the message, and inside the heart was John's name.

He threw the letter into the blazing fire Mrs. Hudson had made, but took it back out. Without success, he tried to delete the moment from his mind palace. But he kept the moment John kissed him. Sherlock would analyze it forever, but he didn't know it then.


	9. Chapter 9

**I'm warning y'all, this is a complete rewrite of Reichenbach, so don't kill me because there's stuff missing. Read! Review!**

* * *

"Sherlock?" I called vaguely into his direction. "There's another case you should look at." I wasn't expecting him to answer me, and he didn't. Ever since the Camille case ended, he'd shut himself in the room, the one he used to never close off, and pretended I didn't exist. Of course, I blamed myself for it, being so incredibly stupid to kiss the friend who had explicitly told me he wasn't interested from the day we met. I told him we could forget about it, but that obviously wasn't happening.

So what was I expected to do but go about my everyday life?

But this case was important. Cameron was going to be put on trial for the murders of her 'friends', as I had taken to calling them in my head, and both Sherlock and I knew that she hadn't done it. The damn prat left his room for nothing, so I didn't think he'd actually defend the person whose case he'd worked on for several days.

I sighed. I loved him too much, and I was mad at him, and Sherlock wasn't even around to notice. Stupid John, stupid Sherlock.

I stood up from my chair, that I comfortably sat in to use my laptop. My footsteps sounded upset, even to me, so Sherlock was bound to understand it. I rapped on his door, none too polite, and asked, "Do you have any intention of coming out of that room in the next century?"

"That is a hyperbole, John," was the almost unwelcome reply. However, I had missed his voice. I huffed, hopefully inaudibly, at the familiar sound. "What is so important, anyhow? I'm quite preoccupied with various things at the moment."

"Oh screw it," I said, yanking on the doorknob and entering his bedroom. Sherlock was curled on his bed, his eyes closed. "It's about Cameron and Camille. Any of that registering in your head?"

Sherlock looked up at me, something strange in his expression. I didn't think I'd ever seen it in the time we had known one another. Fear. Sadness. The expression of the youngest soldier, exposed to his very first battle. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine," he mumbled, closing his eyes again.

"You can't pull that kind of crap with me." I took one of his hands and made him sit up. My skin tingled at the contact, but I did my best to ignore it. "What's wrong? Tell me the truth."

Sherlock looked me straight in the face. "There was someone watching the house you were being held. He left a note threatening my life and, by extension, yours. Camille is connected to him, he got her the supplies she needed, that's how he knows who we are. Our job is to find out who this person is, and how to subdue them. The case of Cameron's potential incarceration can wait."

I started a bit. "How did you...? Never mind, I'm not going to ask that. And it can't wait, because she's about to be put in jail, forever maybe, and Cameron didn't do anything wrong!"

Sherlock shook his head, but almost as soon as he finished the action, he nodded. That was so entirely strange, I couldn't say anything. "I'll speak for her as a witness. You won't, for the sole reason that you have a guiltier face when lying, it's easier to tell."

"But you're not going to lie," I answered.

"I am going to convince all of London that any single part of that girl is innocent, not just one."

* * *

The two of us were dressed in suits, his one that I'd seen him wear a hundred times, mine something I had to dig out of the back of my closet. "Now, please don't speak, if you can. I want Cameron to stay out of jail just as much as you do. Perhaps for different reasons, but it is necessary."

I groaned. "Don't exploit her, for any reason."

Sherlock had that same expression again. "I won't do anything uncalled for."

The jury were all politely speaking amongst themselves when we arrived. We took our seats, but Sherlock stood up after a few minutes, saying he needed to use the restroom. I was left to wait for him, looking around the courthouse. Greg and Donovan were there, so I went over to them.

"Hello."

"Where's the Freak?" Donovan asked. I clenched my fist, but hid it behind me so she couldn't see.

"Elsewhere," I answered coldly.

Greg gave Donovan a warning look, and said, "Cameron Hooper didn't commit any sort of crime. You and Sherlock figured that out, so why are we here?"

I glanced at the door. "I don't know, but I don't like it."

Sherlock took his sweet time coming back; I was fidgeting like a med student first introduced to a scalpel. I missed him, plus I was in courtroom waiting for my teenage friend's trial to start. There was that as well. I somewhat noticed a office-worker woman leaving from the loo's direction before I saw him. He looked slightly ruffled, but insisted nothing was wrong. "John, you don't need to worry about me, not when you have so many other things you're worried about." A corner of his mouth twitched up in a rueful smile. "Never worry yourself over me. I don't deserve it."

I opened my mouth to reply, but he held a hand up to stop me. "Please just let me speak for her."

I nodded, thinking, _He never asks for permission. Something_ is_ wrong, he just won't say what. _Sherlock began to walk up to the front of the courtroom, but he didn't get far before turning back. Reaching his hand out, he barely squeezed my fingers. His hand was cold, like always, and Sherlock didn't let go for a few beautiful seconds. He wouldn't look at me however, and soon he was walking away again, but I hoped there was something...maybe.

"The case of the crimes supposedly committed by Cameron Elise Hooper has began." A gavel hitting the wooden judge's stand rang out, and the room fell silent. "I call any witnesses to the stand." Sherlock stood and seemed to float up to it. Cam was sitting in front of the judge, her brown hair braided, her fingers unconsciously running over the end. I wanted to hug her so badly. She looked so scared.

Sherlock cleared his throat, ignoring the judge's pointed looks to wait for him to allow it. "When I first observed these murders, there were few suspects in mind, including the girl before you all now. I met her not long after that, being consoled by Drs. Hooper and Watson. She is not the murderer; I found that out later, but right then I understood how much she loved the people laying in the morgue that day. I knew Cameron Hooper could not have killed them, the problem was how to prove it.

"I analyzed everything concerning this case: the living quarters of each involved, the bodies, the way Cameron acted, lies, truths, everything. Times of death, relation to times of other occurrences, messages written about Cameron and her 'friends'," I heard the emphasis he placed on the word again, "and I know who killed them."

I bit my lip, drawing blood. How exactly was he going to play this? "The murderer's name is Camille Fredrick. As of now, she is dead." Sherlock locked his eyes on me, begging me not to say anything. "You see, Cameron had another friend, someone whom she loved and trusted like a sister. Camille wanted Cameron to be safe, and when her other 'friends'" _He's using that tone of voice again, _I thought numbly, "pulled her into hurting herself, Camille thought it her duty to remove the source of it.

"Now, she killed all three of the victims, but felt guilty having hurt Cameron so badly, therefore, she killed herself, leaving this trial aimless." Sherlock tilted his head at the judge. "There's my piece. If you want proof, look at Cameron's face. She's very bad at hiding feelings."

I looked at Cameron, just as every other person in the room. Tears streaked her cheeks, redness rimmed her eyes. "Holmes... Sherlock...Camille...not dead..." she murmured. "Not right."

I couldn't help myself; I ran down the shallow steps and rapidly stopped, Molly right on my heels. We hugged her close to us, the two doctors, one that she'd just met, and the other she'd known her whole life. I knew that Camille would not have left Cameron alone, so Sherlock wasn't telling the whole truth. He gave me another look, and motioned to the door. I squeezed Cam one more time and followed behind him.

As soon as the doors were closed at our backs, Sherlock yanked me into a cab. "I had to use that, John. You must see it."

"You told Cam that not only did Camille murder BTA, she killed herself, and now she is all alone in her own mind. That would be like telling me that I'd made you up all along."

* * *

Sherlock yanked John into a cab after narrowly escaping the judge. He knew there would be consequences for it, but he temporarily shoved it to the back of his mind palace. John would be more concerned with the method he'd used to influence Cameron's release. "I had to use that, John. You must see it."

John looked weary, so world-weary and tired, as if he would like nothing better than to collapse on the couch with its Union Jack pillow and sleep. "You told Cam that not only did Camille murder BTA, she killed herself, and now she is all alone in her own mind. That would be like telling me that I'd made you up all along."

Sherlock was about to ask, even though he knew, who BTA was, but John continued speaking, this time with pain drenching his words. "You know, you can be very cruel sometimes. With Cameron, and Camille, and Molly, and," his voice dropped to a whisper, "and me. I know it's unintentional most of the time, but others..." He paused, Sherlock almost unconsciously running a hand over the letter from JM. "I want you to think about what you're saying when you're saying it. You can't go about life not caring who you're affecting." Laughter spilled out of his mouth. _The mouth he kissed me with,_ Sherlock thought. "Ah, what am I saying? I wouldn't be here if you weren't so haphazard." Miniscule needles of hurt scratched the genius. He fingered his coat pocket, feeling the broken wax seal.

"That wasn't the optimal method, but I wanted her free. Camille will show herself when she knows it's safe," Sherlock said monotonously.

John shook his head. "Let's just go home. There will be another case you can occupy yourself with and this whole thing will be forgotten." He put his head in his hands, no more speech forthcoming. Sherlock looked out the window and watched London pass by. JM would show themselves, and everything would be fixed. And maybe that feeling that he had attempted to ignore would wind itself into a recognizable shape.

* * *

"Sherlock, we should go see Molly today." Three days had passed since the trial.

He rolled his eyes at me. "Why is that necessary? All the cases have been no higher than sixes lately, and no interesting deaths either."

I huffed. "You had a part in her niece's trial, the least you could do is see how she's feeling."

Sherlock's gaze turned a shade softer. "Only because you want me to. And she has some body parts I can use."

"How do you know?" I asked, trying to get past the part when he said he would go because I told him to.

"I always know. Dissecting the bodies of people will improve my mood anyway."

When we reached St. Bart's, Sherlock purposefully strode through the front doors. The lab was just a few doors down. We walked into the lab to have not only Molly in it, but a dark-haired man that I'd never seen before. "Molly, do you have any body parts for me?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

"That's not the main reason why we're here," I cut in. "Molly, how are you?"

She looked up, a smile on her face. "I'm much better, thank you John." Turning to look at the person next to her, she said, "This is Jim from IT. We've been dating a month or so."

"Nice to meet you." I held out my hand, and he shook it. His hands were dry and freezing cold, far more so than Sherlock's. There was something dangerous in his eyes, but I couldn't pin down what kind of danger. However, I didn't like it.

"Body parts? Slides? Anything?" Sherlock was growing impatient, and I would have to drag the gorgeous prat out by his ear if he got any worse.

"There's some rather nice mold cultures right here if you want to..." He took the microscope, gazing into it intently. I waited behind him, trying to look over his shoulder. I didn't see much, but I was an army doctor, not any sort of chemist. Without meaning to, my fingers brushed his neck. Sherlock shivered, but let them move in little circles over his skin. I ran my index finger carefully down to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, closing my eyes. It barely registered that he hadn't pushed me away or shot a piercing sentence through me. Sliding back up, the pads of my fingers felt his elevated pulse on his throat. Beating. Beating.

Sherlock suddenly moved, my hand falling down to my side. He seemed to get comfortable again, but after he did, the slightest word came out. "Gay."

I jerked away from him. "I'm sorry, what?" Molly asked.

"Nothing." I could see the faint smile on his face.

"It's obviously not nothing, Sherlock." I hated how breathless my voice sounded, like someone had punched me in the stomach.

He smirked. "Your boyfriend, Molly Hooper. You should break up with him before he finds a male lover under your nose."

Molly looked very close to smacking him, and I would assist her if she did. I took his hand and pulled him out of the lab, steadying the microscope on my way out the door. Standing safely in front of St. Bart's again, I dropped his hand. "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know what you mean, John." His eyes had laughter in them, and that pissed me off all the more.

"You can't just walk in and pronounce anyone's boyfriend, least of all Molly's, gay. It's really horrible and rude."

"Can and did. And if it was the truth, what does it matter?"

"You are three words away from being decked, I would choose them with caution if I were you." Sherlock had that stupid sad look again. God, if he kept using that on me...stupid, (beautiful) buggering detective!

"I'm sorry," he muttered. Wait, Sherlock Holmes just apologized.

"Say that again?"

"I am sorry."

* * *

Sherlock scowled at the note in his hands. Molly's boyfriend, Jim was the name, had slipped his number under a petri dish, but that wasn't what worried him. On the back of the scrawled digits was a red wax seal, which Sherlock had waited until he and his blogger had reached 221B to open and read it. He ripped the seal and peered inside the cream-colored envelope.

A few words were typed across the stark white paper. Check the news at 9:22 PM. The chase will be on then. JM

He put the note into his pocket with the other, making certain it was well hidden. This was all for John, he would be safe once Sherlock faced JM and found a way to...keep John alive. "Damn!"

"Sherlock, are you alright in there?" John asked from the sitting room. He was always so worried about Sherlock, and Sherlock didn't understand it. Nothing he'd done had helped John, nothing he did aided the doctor in any way. Sherlock was an extra presence in his life, a means to the high, that was all. There was no reason for John to touch him, to hold his hand, to _kiss_ him. Why?

"I'm fine," Sherlock lied. "There's nothing wrong." There weren't two notes burning a hole through his pocket, endangering his blogger's life. JM didn't exist. No one was trying to hurt them.

* * *

Sherlock had apologized. What were these insane times we lived in? He was in the kitchen, finding a biscuit and cutting it into exactly even thirds. I was sitting on the couch, watching telly and trying to figure out how the hell the two of us would work from now on. I laughed a bit at the concept of him eating at 9 PM, because everything else would entirely crush me to think about.

"The news is coming on right now," I called, not expecting him to answer.

"The news will only be important at 9:22, I'll watch it then." His reply was really abrupt.

"Alright then. Come over when you're ready."

"It's not a matter of readiness, it's a matter of information at the right time." I rolled my eyes.

Fifteen minutes later, he'd finished his biscuit, had ignored the water glass that I'd placed on the counter with his name on it, and staggered into the sitting room, despair in his eyes. I could count on one hand the number of times I'd seen him like that. "John," he murmured. "Can you let me next to you for seven minutes? That's all I need, just seven minutes."

"Of course, Sherlock, anything." He slowly walked to me and sank into the couch. His head fell onto my lap as he curled against me. I didn't move, in case he...something. His hand rested on my knee, pointer finger trailing back and forth over my thigh.

"Don't let me go."

"Never."

He didn't speak after that, closing his eyes and snuggling into me. I carefully slid a hand through his hair and stroked it away from his forehead. The motion seemed to soothe him, calm him down. After a few minutes, I leaned down and kissed him on the top of his head. Sherlock shifted to wrap his arms around my waist. He needed to be comforted, but I didn't know why, or why he was holding me like this.

"9:21," I whispered. "If you need to look at the news..."

Sherlock barely shifted again so he could face the telly. The newscast was talking about something boring for a while, but then it cut to the form of a young woman that I swore I'd seen before. "According to reports from Scotland Yard, after the trial of Cameron Hooper, suspected of a triple homicide, Sherlock Holmes was found convicted of a crime himself." I turned to look at him. "He neither swore to tell the truth while giving witness or told the truth. Camille Fredrick, the girl who he said committed the murders, has been found by the Yard to never have existed in the first place. The 'great' detective is being chased down for these crimes as we speak."

Sherlock sprang up, moving off of me and grabbing his coat. "9:22, damn it."

While he put his scarf on as fast as he could, I asked, "So you're just running? That's it?" I grabbed my own coat and put it on, checking to make sure my gun was still inside.

"You're coming, though." Sherlock took the stairs two at a time.

"Bugger." I followed him.

Once we got downstairs and opened the front door, we saw three police cars coming toward us. "Let's go the other way."

"Yes," he replied.

Chases were one of those completely mad things that erased my limp and flooded adrenaline through my body, things that built me higher than normal life could even hope to reach. Running like the devil was behind us, and maybe he was. The streets and alleyways wound in a complex web through London, veins we sped through. The sirens rang in our ears, just more energy. I could hear them coming from the left when Sherlock was about to turn that way. "No, _this _way!" I took his hand and led him to the right. In the haze, somehow I felt in sharp detail the tattoo of his heartbeat and mine, matching. Strides long, hands entwined, never looking back, dark skies, asphalt under our feet, gun in my jacket, ice in his eyes. We were meant for this, this freedom. We were alive.

* * *

Sherlock and John. Together as always, being chased around London like a child chases a light in the sky. Sherlock knew that John wouldn't last much longer, so he snuck them into St. Bart's, where John could rest and Sherlock could hide before confronting JM. He knew the person had enough influence to use people to get what they wanted, and smart enough to know how to stab the heart Sherlock wasn't aware he had kept. Dangerous. Too dangerous.

"Find Molly," he muttered to John, who nodded and went down to the lab. Sherlock found a small ball on one of the tables, and hid behind a desk, methodically bouncing it against the wall. Floor, wall, hand. Floor, wall, hand. One and two. Three and four. A salsa dance. "Nonsensical," he whispered to no one.

Molly came to him, John hanging back in the doorway. "Go home, John," Molly said. "You need to rest now. He'll be okay here."

John left, but Sherlock could see in his walk how reluctantly. He checked to make sure John was down in the street. "Molly, John and I are in danger of losing our lives. Please help me." Molly nodded, and Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again.

* * *

Meet me at St. Bart's roof. The game is at its climax. Sherlock knew which number he was to send it to. All that was left now was to wait.

* * *

"Hello, Sherly darling. I see you've followed the clues. Like breadcrumbs to the gingerbread house." JM, better known as James Moriarty, laughed. "I always wanted to be a part of the Hansel and Gretel story."

"You have threatened John's safety and mine. Why?"

He grinned. "Because you used to be so interesting, the consulting detective. Of course I liked you better because I'm a consulting criminal, and I love the rivalry. You were so smart, nothing could touch the 'great' Sherlock Holmes."

"Kitty had such atrocious grammar. Using 'neither' with 'or' rather than 'nor', 'who' instead of 'whom'. Dear me. Awful."

"Off track, my dear." Moriarty's voice suddenly dripped with acid. "But Dr. John Watson. I was disappointed. When I'm disappointed, I make people suffer. Especially when you were so fun. Now, here's the plan. I'm glad you chose a rooftop. You're going to jump."

"What makes you think I'll jump?"

Moriarty motioned toward the ground. "I'll kill them. The ones you care about. Two first, but John...I have something special planned for him."

"Lestrade?"

"Sniper."

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Knife. You knew an assassin moved into 221C, correct?"

"John." His last word was a breath, a tiny exhale.

"Torture. For as long as I want, and believe me, he'll beg for death. But I won't give it to him. All preventable, if..."

"If I kill myself." Sherlock had thought his death would be numb for him, a cocaine-induced haze, but this was painful, aching, sharp, throbbing, crushing, burning, freezing, a slow-working poison and a stab wound and a needle of KCl.

"You've got to admit that's sexier. Only I have the code sent if you die."

"Can I convince you to send it?"

Moriarty laughed, long and hard. "Oh, Sherlock. Desperate. I'm so sick of life, aren't you? Boredom, all the time. This game is almost over now, won't be able to play again. Dull, a weight on the two of us. Nothing. Goodbye. Give my love to Camille; without her everything would be too different." Sherlock could see the pistol in the criminal's hand, but couldn't stop the shot from ringing out. Moriarty fell dead to the ground.

Sherlock unlocked his mobile and tapped the number one on his speed dial.

* * *

I was in a cab, heading to St. Bart's to check on Sherlock when my phone rang. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Where are you at this very moment?"

"A block from Bart's. Why, what do you need?"

He sighed. "Get out of the cab."

I told the cabbie to stop, and I paid him quickly, stepping into the cold wind. "Now look up, John. Do you see me?" And there he was, on the roof of the hospital.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"This, it's my note. People do that, don't they?"

"No." My voice had gaping cracks in it. "Stay there, I'll..."

"No, stay right where you are. Can you do this for me, John? Please don't move."

"Don't leave. Don't do it, Sherlock."

"It was all a trick. All a magic trick. Smoke and mirrors and emotions."

"Sherlock." The tears were choking me. "I am in love with you."

He seemed to sway up there, tipping to fall. "Goodbye, John."

"Sherlock!" And...fallen.

I dropped my phone, running to him. Blurs passed in front of me, my unseeing eyes. Nothing. Nurses were coming, gathering around him. "Please, he's my friend. I'm a doctor." No pulse. Taken away on a gurney. "Let me in." Gone.

* * *

His gravestone. I hated it. "One more miracle, for me." I knew he couldn't hear me. "Come back. I...love...you. Just come back. Please...don't be dead." Fragmented. Broken. Dr. John Watson. Gone.

* * *

Sherlock stood in the shadows. "Stay for me. I will come back."

**End of Part One**


	10. Chapter 10

**How'd I do with Reichenbach? Here's the two years of silence.**

* * *

Something you learn in physics: When two objects, no matter the initial speed or mass, fall from anywhere, they will accelerate 9.8 meters per second squared. Now, what does that mean exactly? A bouncy ball and a bowling ball are thrown off a building, and they fall 9.8 meters per second faster every second that goes by. It is the same with love. Two people are pushed into this emotion with different speeds, still falling with an acceleration of 9.8 meters per second squared. Speed and mass don't matter; for most they never matter. But the mass of the love going at a dangerous speed matters at one instance: when you hit the ground.

* * *

1 Week

"Sherlock!" I yelled, shooting straight up in bed. Just a dream. Just a bad dream. I put a hand against my chest, attempting to steady my pounding heart. But I knew, as with all the other times, that my heartbeat wouldn't drop down for a long time. I looked around my bedroom, trying to calm myself down with the familiarity of it. Sherlock would come in and reprimand me for being so loud in a minute.

I left my room and went to get a glass of water. The kitchen, I blearily noticed, was too clean. He must have gotten rid of some experiments to make room for new ones. After running the water in the sink, I felt something more wrong. The sitting room was empty, and his chair was cold, and his scent was everywhere. Where was Sherlock?

Sherlock was dead.

I shook my head in the dark. He couldn't be dead, he couldn't be gone. But he was. Sherlock had thrown himself off St. Bart's roof and left me alone. _Now she is all alone in her own mind. That would be like telling me I'd made you up all along. _I hadn't made him up, had I? No one could have just thought up the beautiful, mad, brilliant Sherlock Holmes.

I had to move on, forget him. Even if it killed me, I had to. The beautiful, mad, brilliant Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

3 Weeks

The park was supposed to be a good, calm place. I was supposed to see the children playing and heal. I was supposed to hear laughter and not want to leave.

"Mommy, I'm Superman!" a little boy shouted to the blonde woman ten feet below him. He was on a tall playground structure designed to look like a castle. The boy's face had a cheerful smile on it, but what he did after that broke me again.

He jumped.

I flashed back to the rooftop, his coat fluttering in the wind, mobile clenched in his hand. Dropping the cellphone, ending the call, stepping off. Jumping.

I knew the little boy didn't know why I was crying, I knew no one understood. None of those well-meaning people had any idea. "I'm okay," the boy told me, showing me his arms and legs. To him, I was nothing more than a stranger with tears flowing from his eyes. To me, he was much more than just a boy that had jumped off the castle turrets.

"But _he_ isn't."

* * *

2 Months

"It's like he's dead, too," Donovan remarked. Anderson agreed next to her. This was my first time back at the Yard, and for the single reason that Lestrade wanted to make sure I was okay.

"Ignore them," he said. "So, how are you?"

I gave him one of Sherlock's famous you-are-a-complete-imbecile looks, but then regretted it. "Like it was yesterday. He is...everywhere. Every time I see anything that remotely reminds me of Sherlock, the pain's back, and it doesn't go away, it just gets worse."

Lestrade nodded. "A stab in the heart and a bullet to the head."

"Every weapon imaginable."

"Hm. I'm thinking you can't come back here for a long time, am I right?"

I started. "How did you...?"

"I just know. Stay where you feel the safest. If it's in your flat, that's fine. If it's at the clinic, stay there. It will help you, believe me."

"Thank you."

* * *

6 Months

Someone knocked at the door to the flat. I hadn't been able to leave it, because while Sherlock wasn't there, he comforted me. Mrs. Hudson helped as well: making sure I ate, bringing me tea, setting up dates. I would never verbalize she was a life-saver, because it implied my life was in danger, and I knew how close it was to being true.

I stood up to answer it, putting on my best normal person face. When I opened the door, Molly and Cam walked in without me saying they could. "Well, hello to you too." My voice fell flat from the tone I was going for, but the two of them would know why.

"Hello, John. You look awful, here's some coffee."

"Camille?"

She grinned. "The one and only. Take the coffee, my poor, unhappy doctor." I carefully grabbed the steaming cup from her hands. "Now, tell me exactly how you feel right now."

I took a deep breath. It felt like barbed needles entering my lungs. "I loved him," Molly looked surprised, "and he threw himself off a building. I'm angry and I still love him, and sad and hopeless and I'm in an incredible amount of pain that doesn't exist outside my mind, and my limp has come back, worse than ever, and I miss him so much, and he left a damn note for me to hold in my head all the time, and...and I want to see him again." I tried to take another breath, but it hitched in my throat.

"John?" Molly asked.

"Yes, Molly?"

"Do you want to have dinner with us? Maybe my cat will help you a bit, or Cam will find something to occupy you."

I nodded. "That would be lovely. Would Mrs. Hudson be invited as well?"

"Why not?" Camille replied. There was my first hope for something normal, a two-toned girl and her aunt.

* * *

9 Months

"So, what do you do for a living?" the woman across from me asked. Her makeup was too generously applied, her hair dyed, and the way she was looking at me made it difficult to stay in my seat.

"I'm a doctor at the nearby clinic," I answered, putting on a smile.

"I would love if you played doctor with me." Her leer was too visible. It frightened me a bit, in a really ridiculous way.

"Oh, I just saw a friend of mine, I'll be back in a minute." Of course it was a lie, but I needed to get away from her. Instead of going to a different spot on the bar, I cut through the dance floor and went out the employee's exit. No one would miss me, I knew it. The alley was empty except for a few trashcans. I thought about the most direct way to get to 221B, but I would have to hail a cab.

"I was always so terrible at hailing cabs compared to you," I murmured. "It was like you could just snap your fingers or wave your wand, and one would just appear." I paused. "I wish you could wave your wand and appear right in front of me."

The streets around me remained just as noisy and unyielding as they were before. "You know, I can't stand going on dates with women anymore. I can feel you standing behind me, telling me their faults, making me want to leave. You never show yourself, and that's probably better, but I _miss you_. And...God, I don't even know what I'm saying. You're not here!" A man walking out of the bar gave me a weird look, but I didn't concentrate on him long enough to care. It didn't matter.

_Don't let me go. _I laughed bitterly. "You got your wish."

* * *

1 Year

I woke up to screaming pain in my head. I kept my eyes closed, knowing that if I opened them, the pain would get worse. "Hello, my John."

"You are not alive," I whispered, because anything else would hurt me.

He laughed, but I still couldn't see him. "And what evidence do you base that conclusion on?"

"I saw you fall from St. Bart's roof. I saw your body on the ground, no pulse, blood streaming from your nose and mouth. I heard you say goodbye."

"Just because I'm here doesn't mean you didn't see any of that. Do you know the real reason why I'm here?"

"Obviously not, my genius."

"I'm here because today I have been dead a year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of nothing, wishing I was alive, wishing you were dead, struggling through life. You aren't going to deny it. You can't."

"I can't, it's true. But you are not real. And I will be alright without you. Now go away and let me sleep." I could feel him leave. I had the thought just then that I might actually need a therapist. Laughing shot another layer of sharpness to my migraine. What I really needed was to stay in bed. This would pass. _You said that about the aching from Sherlock._ So what if I lied?

* * *

16 Months

My mood had been bad all day. I'd forgotten my keys and was twenty minutes late for work, the patients at the clinic kept me running around all day, Donovan had said something scathing when I stopped at the Yard to get Lestrade some coffee, I'd spilled tea on my jacket, and Tesco had ran out of creamer. I wanted to go back to the flat, with all its Sherlock-smelling things, and watch bad telly until I fell asleep. But first, I had to buy some actual food.

I didn't get very far before one of my ex-girlfriends assailed me. "John! How've you been?"

"My best friend is still dead, but otherwise, I've been doing fine, buying groceries, normal things," I rambled, grabbing box of pasta from behind her. "So, yes, that's how I've been, how've you been?"

"Fine," she said curtly. "See you later." I was so grateful when she was gone. I sighed and continued my shopping trip, but someone followed me. I tried to ignore it, and I failed, so I turned to confront them.

"Hello." Her voice was warm and comforting. "You clearly have some problems. Care to share?"

"Are you serious?" I asked, but I smiled.

"Entirely. My name is Mary Morstan, let's start with that."

"I'm John. Dr. John Watson." For some reason, she put me at ease.

"So, who's this best friend of yours?" Her hair was blonde, her eyes sparkled, and she looked friendly and sane.

"His name was Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective. He killed himself about a year ago, and it is absolutely horrible still. We would go on crazy cases and almost get shot by criminals and put ourselves in danger as much as we could. It was amazing, and he was brilliant like no one else. And we..." I shook my head. "He's dead now, and there's nothing I can do about it. Plus, I've had a pretty pathetic day."

Mary didn't speak for a minute. "You seriously need a hug."

"A hug would be lovely," I replied. Maybe we'd be friends. I could use more of those.

* * *

2 Years

I had gotten into a sort of existence. Wake up, avoid biscuits because they were his, eat breakfast, go to work and see Mary, who got a job there four months after I met her, leave work and visit the Yarders, go back to the flat and eat dinner with Mrs. Hudson, watch telly until I felt tired, go into my room or his, depending on how I'd felt that day, and sleep. Sometimes his room was better. Nothing about this whole business was logical; routine didn't always make sense.

The thing with pain if you have it long enough is that pain turns to numbness, and the numbness is worse, because you wonder if you can feel anything anymore. Time passed, tea and coffee were drank, life went on. He was always there, and so was the Sig Sauer in my desk drawer. I still stayed away from mirrors.

* * *

Sherlock buttoned one of his newer suits. "Now that the mission is complete, I can go back to London, correct?"

"Your real question has to do with John Watson. We haven't kept tabs on him since the incident of perhaps a year ago, I believe." Mycroft was just as cold as ever. Sherlock had learned to appreciate, over and over again, how warm and alive John was in comparison.

"What sort of incident?" he asked.

"I'll let him tell you himself."

Sherlock nodded, putting on his coat and scarf. He hoped John would forgive him, and a microscopic, terribly selfish part of him hoped he hadn't moved on.


	11. Chapter 11

**The return!**

* * *

Sherlock stepped into the flat in the middle of the night. He made sure to stay quiet; Mrs. Hudson would be annoyingly loud if he made enough noise to alert her to his presence. And John...he wanted John to keep sleeping, not be disturbed.

He noticed John had kept everything almost exactly as it was, no experiments unfortunately. The mess of papers still covered the sitting room, and Sherlock's chair had no dust on it. A woman's perfume barely tainted the flat, but what did Sherlock expect? He knew John dated many women, and one of them certainly could be around enough to waft it everywhere. Somehow, this little thing sent a twinge of something unfamiliar through his veins. However, he chose to ignore it in favor of continuing to analyze the flat.

John had a habit of laying on the couch to sleep, but he wasn't there then. None of the usual boxes of takeaway were laying around, so he hadn't been eating as well as before. There was a period of time in which John came home drunk, but not so frequently as to cause addiction. Sherlock couldn't see anything out of the ordinary for grieving, but underneath all the insignificant facts, a feeling of foreboding permeated the area. John wasn't alright, and hadn't been for a long time.

Purposely making an effort to tiptoe, Sherlock crept into the hallway that led to the two's bedrooms. Upon entering his own, he saw something rather strange, and lifting, and sad, but Sherlock couldn't have named such emotions. John was passed out, sleeping on his bed. John's form was inert, exhausted, and seemingly unchanged. His first instinct was to wake him and ask him to get off. His second, more appropriate instinct was to leave him and sleep in the other, hopefully unoccupied bedroom. If a woman was sleeping there, he would leave the flat and try to contact John a different way. Sherlock quietly walked out of the room, but not before brushing a bit of John's hair away from his face. He had no idea what persuaded him to do this. John didn't look peaceful in slumber.

The other room was much more boring, but Sherlock, for once, was tired and wanted to sleep. He took off his coat and scarf carefully, placing them on hangers in John's closet. The blogger wouldn't mind, he was sure of it. Without much excess thought, Sherlock climbed into his partner's bed, unconsciously breathing in the scent of him. Things would be easier in the morning.

* * *

I woke up to the prospects of another uneventful day, except it was Saturday, and that made everything better. Mary was going to show up with breakfast soon, since she was a great cook, and I was mediocre at best. She checked on me like all the other people in my life, but more often than everyone except Cam.

I looked at the clock next to Sherlock's bed, and it read 7:56. Perfect. Mary would be here soon. I rolled out of bed and put on a dressing gown, making sure I looked halfway decent. The items in the kitchen seemed a little moved around, but I must have done it when I got home the night before.

A few minutes had passed when there was a knock at the door. I answered it, smiling. "Hello."

"John, you didn't collapse after work, did you?" she asked, coming inside.

I shrugged. "I'm fine. Nothing for you to be worried about."

Mary rolled her eyes. "You are ridiculous. Here's breakfast, though."

"Oh, lovely. Are there biscuits?" a voice wondered from another room. I knew that voice, but it couldn't be who I thought it was.

"Er, yes." Mary said. A figure strolled in, wearing a slightly creased dress shirt and pants with a dressing gown over them. His eyes flashed, an ice-blue, and his hair was a mess of dark curls.

"Thank you. May I ask who you are and what you happen to be doing in my flat?" It was not him. There was no real way he could be here.

"It's my flat, and she is a friend," I told him. "You were dead, anyway." My voice choked; I had no means to stop it.

"I was never dead, John." Sherlock, for I knew it was really him, just smiled. Like this was normal, like he hadn't been gone for two years. He _smiled_. Damn, did it hurt.

"I thought...you...were dead." Deep breaths, John. I couldn't seem to take in enough air. "You...fucking...left me. Do you, the great...Sherlock Holmes...have _any _idea...how I feel right now?"

He shook his head. "It was necessary, John. I had to do it."

I laughed, a cutting, stabbing laugh. He _had_ to do it. Of course he did. Suddenly, the pain was too much for me to hold in. There were moments when I needed to punch something, and I had an object of this feeling. I barely felt my fist meeting his stupid, idiotic, gorgeous face.

He put a hand to his nose, attempting to staunch the blood. Mary grabbed him a tissue, but her expression was steely. "So, it's you."

"What about me?" Sherlock asked, an arrogance entering his speech.

"You're the one: the best friend, right?"

He laughed this time. "Obviously, there's a fault to that statement. I have a hand to my bleeding and possibly broken nose from John, who is incredibly and irrationally imbalanced in emotion due to the simple fact that I am indeed alive and well. This is not normal best friend behavior, even I know that."

Somehow, I felt myself punch him again.

"Who else knows?" I could hear the horrible, breaking tone in my voice.

"Mycroft, of course, Molly helped with the death certificate, and some of my homeless network." He noted the warning in my eyes and added, "It had to be perfect. No one could know without endangering more than just the two of us."

I tried again to breathe regularly, but then I could feel tears in my throat. I rubbed my hand over my face, trying very hard to hold it in. "Sherlock, I cannot be around you without wanting to hurt you, so I'll be staying at Mary's for a while. The flat is functional, I didn't move most of your stuff, so you should be fine." I turned to Mary. "I just have to grab a bag."

* * *

Sherlock found himself in the unfamiliar position of confusion. "You screwed up very badly," the woman called Mary told him.

"I know that now."

"No, I don't think you do. I think you will understand if you stay here a few nights. John..." she paused, "hurt so much when you left that he wasn't even remotely close to normal until now. Imagine how it must have been a few months ago, or a year." She smiled. "He'll forgive you, I know he will. Just let him sort it out."

Sherlock nodded. "My brother told me there was an incident while I was gone. Do you know anything about any incident?"

She shook her head. "John will tell you himself if he ever does." He nodded again, but felt an ache that he'd never experienced in long periods. John wasn't happy to see him. He had another life, with a platonic woman and breakfasts on Saturdays. John had punched him twice, and was going to again. Sherlock wondered exactly how life would work now, now that John...John didn't care about him.

* * *

I left Sherlock's room carrying a duffel bag. I wasn't sure how long I had to stay away, so I just packed a couple days worth. Mary stood by the door, while Sherlock stood over in the kitchen. He didn't say anything, and I knew I couldn't either. "Ready?" Mary asked. I nodded slightly. "Alright then. Goodbye, Sherlock." Sherlock barely gestured his head.

I almost hobbled down the stairs, but when we got outside, I fell against the door. "It hurts so much. I miss him really bad, and...he's...not a few meters...from here."

Mary rubbed my shoulder, helping somewhat. However, I knew that only he could fix me, and that was neither ironic nor funny. "When did it get this messed up?" I asked her.

"I don't know." Mary didn't answer past that, hailing a cab that went to her cozy flat. I needed to call Cam.

* * *

Sherlock disliked coffee shops in general, but this one exceeded his unpleasant expectations. The place smelled too strongly of cheap perfumes, the coffee was dismal, and the people kept giving him funny looks. The only reason he was here? Camille called.

"You are a bastard. I hope you know that." Her opening line. Not very polite, Sherlock thought to himself.

"Both John and Mary told me something similar."

"What happened to your nose?"

"John punched it twice."

Camille whistled under her breath. "You're lucky you got off with just that. I would have done much worse if I was in John's," she winced, "position."

"How bad is it?" Sherlock asked simply. He knew Camille wasn't the type to mince words.

"Screaming nightmares, eating badly and sometimes not at all, speaks with Cameron seldom, like a zombie at work, and..."

"What else?" He was scared now.

"I'm not allowed to talk about that. Swore an oath, both Cameron and I if you were thinking of asking her."

Sherlock was silent for a few minutes, Camille calmly drinking the terrible coffee. "Do you...do you think he wants me here? I can leave if..."

"Shut up. He wants you here so much it's hurting him. You abandoned him once, you won't abandon him again. If you do, you have several people willing to get their hands dirty with your blood. Am I clear?"

He nodded. "You would be an interesting criminal, Camille."

She giggled a bit. "I already am."

* * *

I dialed the number I needed as soon as Mary and I got to her flat. "Cam?"

"Camille. I met him at that awful coffee shop, purposely tortured him, and threatened his life if he ever tried to hurt you again."

"They don't call you the protective one for no reason."

She snorted. "Of course not. He asked about the incident. Thought you should know."

I let out a long breath. "I'm going to have to tell him sooner or later."

Camille didn't speak for a second. "You're still in love with him, aren't you? You haven't moved on?" That didn't sound like Camille.

"Yes. I have been in love with him this whole time. There is no moving on from him."

"You know he needs you too, right?"

"I'll have to see it."

"Don't wait too long. I know it sucks and it hurts, but it will hurt more without him."

"Thanks, Cameron."

I could almost hear her smile through the phone. "Welcome."

* * *

The night was too cold to Sherlock, though he knew it wasn't a matter of temperature. He'd actually changed into pajamas, wandered around the flat for a while, but couldn't go to sleep. Somewhere subconsciously, he knew John's room felt right, safe, good. Sherlock would sleep there, instead of this purgatory of nothingness.

He crawled under the covers, which in and of itself was strange, considering he normally slept in a sheet. Upon putting his head on the pillow, he realized how much he missed John. His scent was stronger here, a shampoo and cinnamon-type smell that comforted Sherlock. Maybe he was in pain, not a real, tangible pain, but something unexplainable. _I jumped for him. I'm not a bad person. _Yet he couldn't help but wonder if he was. This was attachment, and the genius was scared, more than he was when chasing Moriarty's web. John mattered more than all of that, and Sherlock had no idea how to fix it now.

* * *

"Are you sure you'll be alright on the couch?" Mary asked.

I smiled. "I slept on the couch lots of times before I met you. I'll be fine."

"Tell me if you need anything." I nodded, and Mary went to bed.

I wrapped the blankets around myself, trying to get comfortable. Sherlock was alive. It had been a long, long day. "Funny, I normally would have been so ridiculously happy you were here. But this is almost worse," I whispered into the dark. "Why do I still love you? There is no 'logical' reason that I love you, a man who I thought was dead for two years and has come back with a gleam in his beautiful, brilliant eyes." I breathed, "You are still so beautiful."

I turned on the couch. "I'll find a way to get back to you. It might take a little while, but we'll be okay." I quietly laughed, making sure Mary couldn't hear me. "I'm sorry I punched you."

I could almost hear him answer me, just a fragment of a reply in his baritone, but my mind drifted off. "Goodnight, my love, Sherlock Holmes."


	12. Chapter 12

**The two of them will be alright. Pinky promise. There were some songs that helped write these few chapters, and they included: "Under Control" by Calvin Harris and Alesso feat. Hurts, "Calling You" by Blue October, "City of Dreams" by Dirty South and Alesso, "Shattered (Turn The Car Around)" by O.A.R., and "Wonderwall" by Oasis, which is actually in the chapter. I don't own any of it. Trigger warning.**

* * *

"John, would you like some breakfast?" Mary called from her kitchen.

"Sure, just one minute." I finished dressing in a jumper I was sure I hadn't worn in years, and some jeans. For some stupid, irrational reason, probably one with blue eyes and curls, I wanted to look nice. I thought I was able to stay away from him longer, but it really hurt, and I knew it would hurt more if I didn't see him. Sherlock.

I walked into the kitchen and sat at her table, watching her fret over me like a mother hen. Mary had become a very good friend, and I was pretty sure she knew more about me than I told her. "You're going to see him today, aren't you?" she asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, but found that I couldn't. "It will make you both happy and help you heal if you see one another."

"That's not the problem," I replied. "It's that I'm...really angry at him and I want him to know that."

"He knows it. And the both of you are miserable. Ask Cam if you need to, but Sherlock has at least scratched the surface of the problems, and that surface is pretty frightening. He's worried." She smiled. "Besides, I like him."

I gave her a funny look. "You like him?"

"Yes."

* * *

Sherlock woke up slowly, for a moment wondering how much sleep he'd gotten. Looking over at the clock, he saw the time was 7:47. He almost fell off the bed, _John's bed,_ he reminded himself. Sherlock had slept for over nine hours. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd slept that much. Of course, the double variable of being back in the flat and in _John's bed _had overruled his usual sense of work.

He stumbled out of the room, gazing around the flat, reanalyzing it now that John was gone. In the daylight, everything was thrown into sharp relief. Emptiness. All of Sherlock's papers were still strewn about, and the kitchen was somewhat functional, but an outside viewer might not have thought John lived there. His laptop, that Sherlock used more often anyway, had been used as a pillow a few times, but not for its programs. Fingerprints covered the device, so indistinct that they must have been over a year old. Dust hung in the air like ornaments on normal people's Christmas trees. There should be sounds, Sherlock thought. Sounds of thinking, typing, telly, water running, yelling, anything Sherlock would have settled for. John was a ghost in this place.

Sherlock dressed lethargically, raking his hand through his hair to comb it and remembering when John had done the same. _Don't let me go_, he'd told him. He never let himself know why he'd said that. Just one time, he wanted to hold someone, before Moriarty burned his heart away, and took John from him. He wondered over the two years why the criminal targeted his blogger. It pained him to think about John hurting. _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. _

He shook his head to clear it. There was a case with a skeleton found by the Yard that he had to look at. John could wait. _Liar. _

* * *

Work did absolutely nothing do clear my mind. The patients were more demanding than usual, a huge group of ailing, needy people that needed me, but I couldn't concentrate on them for very long. I felt bad about that, but I was allowed to worry about myself sometimes. Maybe? I didn't know. Sherlock invaded when I was trying to pay attention.

Mary knew what was wrong, and she was sympathetic, but I couldn't leave work until my shift was over.

After my shift was finally finished, I packed up my things, put on my jacket and left the clinic. I took out my mobile, like I usually did, checking for messages from Sherlock. Even after the fall, I did this regularly because there was still a tiny hope he was alive. But now, I had a tiny hope he would say something to me. "Shut up, John," I murmured.

On my way to Mary's house, I stopped at Tesco to buy a few things that Mary insisted I buy because I 'didn't get out enough'. Exactly what did that mean?

Mary's flat was empty when I reached it, so I set about making myself dinner. I hadn't eaten well, at all really, over the past two years, so everyone made sure I ate when they were around. I laughed a little. The self-destructiveness was more Sherlock's thing than mine.

I missed him. More than ever, if that was even possible, which it probably wasn't. "Please text me, do something. Say you're dying. Say you're bored, I don't care. Talk to me," I told the mobile. The problem was that phones cannot answer back, only the people behind them.

After a few minutes, and nearly overcooking my pasta, my phone buzzed. My call tone? I picked it up to answer it. It was probably the clinic, seeing if I could take some extra shifts, which I had done lately. "Hello?" I asked. The other end was silent, but I could hear someone breathing. "Hello?"

"John, I'm bored."

I sucked in a breath. "How do you think I can help you?"

He didn't speak for a second. "John, I'm _bored_." His voice had something plaintive and sad in it.

"Are you really?" If he wanted to say something, he would say it in words I understood.

Sherlock huffed. "No. I almost wish I was bored."

"Then what are you feeling?"

"I...miss...you." It sounded coaxed from him, like a child's apology. "Can we meet somewhere, preferably not that god awful coffee shop Camille subjected me to."

"You could have started with that," I replied, fingering the phone case.

"I don't know how to say things like that very well."

I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in a long time. "It's okay. I know a café not very far from here." I paused. "I miss you too."

* * *

Sherlock fidgeted through the entire process of ordering. He'd arrived twenty minutes before John told him to meet. Impatience was something he hadn't yet gotten rid of. The café was small, a place made to look cozy, with its soft chairs and warm neutral paint job, so he knew it was the type of establishment John would frequent. Quaint. However, the people that worked there were tattooed and pierced, accepting of everyone. Such an oxymoron. But Sherlock liked it, even though he would never admit it.

He sat by the one big window, drinking his black coffee with two sugars, waiting for John. Again he wondered how a simple phone call had turned into missing John and saying so. He did miss John, far too much, and had the minute he'd left after the fall, but this was madness. Soon he'd be hugging Lestrade, or telling people Mycroft was his brother. Sherlock shuddered to just think about that. But John was different. John was special, in some way that Sherlock hated he didn't understand.

The bell by the door rang, signaling another customer. "Hello, Lisbeth!"

"Welcome, John! Your usual, I assume?" the girl at the counter called out.

John smiled. "Yes." When he found Sherlock his smile dropped a little. His gaze hurt, because it meant Sherlock had hurt him.

Eventually, he couldn't take it. "I'msorryJohn." It came out like a jumble of letters and symbols on his tongue.

"What?" John asked.

"I'm sorry. For leaving, for pretending I was dead, for hurting you, for...everything. Everything I've done."

John nodded, something warm and so very _John _entering his expression. "I'll always forgive you, Sherlock. I was going to forgive you whether you apologized or not. I'm glad you did, because it proves me right."

"Right about what?"

"You are a good person. I knew it the whole time, and now I have proof."

Sherlock felt his face grow warm, but denied any existence of a blush. "Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me," John replied. "Now, coffee."

The blogger sat down across from Sherlock, waiting for Lisbeth to call his order. She actually brought it to him, smiling and fingering her cartilage piercing. Sherlock squirmed a little. "So, who's this good-looking man?" she asked.

"His name is Sherlock Holmes." John was very cautious about how he said his name, but Sherlock didn't figure out why.

"Really? Hm." She smirked. "And exactly why are you two here together?"

John wouldn't look at him, which bothered the genius. "We wanted to see one another. And he apologized for some things."

Lisbeth laughed. "Whatever you say, doctor. Well, Mr. Holmes." She turned to him. "Would you like to know how your boyfriend and I know each other?"

Sherlock nodded quickly, while John corrected, "He's not my boyfriend. Never has been." But there was a deep blush on his cheeks. "And you can tell the last part of the story only." Lisbeth gave a thumbs up.

John took a deep breath. Sherlock noticed he'd been doing that a lot lately. He barely contemplated the potential meaning of it before John started talking. "You know, your leaving hit me really hard. I was depressed for a long time, and about eleven months after you left, I just couldn't do it anymore. I missed you and hated you, and I didn't feel like I had much...to live for. So...you know the Sig Sauer pistol I have?" Sherlock nodded. How many times had he known that gun came everywhere with the two of them? "I took it out, held it for a few minutes, checked the magazine was full, pressed the barrel to my head, and...shot. But my hand slipped." John pulled up his jumper sleeve on his left arm. Sherlock covered his mouth in surprise. "I ended up shooting my bicep, you can see the scar the bullet made. But I wanted something to keep me from hurting myself again."

"You got a tattoo?" Sherlock's tone had a restrained numbness in it.

John blushed again. "Yep!" Lisbeth cut in. "He wanted something silvery-blue, like ice, and I thought that was awfully specific, but I hooked him up. He just wanted the outline of a swallow, because swallows symbolize..."

"Returning safely home, love of family or a spouse, salvation," Sherlock interrupted, still numbly.

"And he asked for it to cover his bullet scar. He's been showing up at the café and bringing me tea at the tattoo parlor." Lisbeth's grin widened. She always seemed to be smiling, Sherlock noticed. "We take care of him. He even has a song!"

Sherlock looked over at John. "It's true. Everyone that frequents the café enough gets to pick a song from Lisbeth's mobile to play in the shop."

"You haven't gotten your song yet today, have you?"

"No." While Lisbeth went to the counter to find her mobile and the song, Sherlock turned to John and asked him to stand up. John did as he asked, Sherlock following suit. There was so much pain pounding through the genius' veins. He stepped forward awkwardly, then collapsed into John's arms.

* * *

Sherlock wrapped his arms around me, pulling me flush against him. "Please don't ever ever try to kill yourself again. I am alive because of you and if you leave me, I will not stay alive for very long. I'm...sorry. I'm so so sorry."

He was close enough that his lips were just millimeters from my hair. And God, it was exhilarating. "Everyone needs someone to forgive them. You're back, and that's all I really wanted anyway."

The song played for a little while, the genius and the blogger holding each other. Maybe I would tell him I loved him. I was beginning to think we actually had a chance.

_"Backbeat, the word is on the street that the fire in your heart is out_

_"I'm sure you've heard it all before, but you've never really had a doubt_

_"I don't believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now." _

_"And all the roads we have to walk are winding_

_"And all the lights that lead us there are blinding_

_"There are many things that I would like to say to you, but I don't know how."_

Sherlock slowly leaned the full distance down and kissed my forehead. Everything fell into a beautiful haze right then, fuzzy and tinged with sunshine. We'd be okay.

_"Because maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me_

_"And after all, you're my wonderwall."_


	13. Chapter 13

**Something's coming you guys might want to read.**

* * *

"John, are you aware that Lisbeth is sexually attracted to females?" Sherlock asked out of nowhere from the sitting room.

I walked in, a pretty bewildered look on my face. We'd been in 221B again for about three weeks now. "No, I wasn't aware of that."

He looked disappointed. "I would have thought you'd made the connection."

I shook my head. "What does this have to do with anything?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Must I explain everything all the time? Cameron and Camille have similar desires, does it not make sense to combine that which we already know is true?"

A grin began to form on my face. "You are trying to set them up."

He sighed deeply and exasperatedly. "No, I am attempting to perform an experiment on two willing individuals."

"Call it what you want. We're going to need some help, though." I whipped out my mobile. "Mary."

* * *

"Alright, what's this about?" Mary asked, folding her arms. "I'm not in the mood to chase down a criminal."

"You know Lisbeth?" I asked. She nodded. "Sherlock insists she's lesbian, and so he had the idea to set her up with Cam."

"I don't want to set them up, I wish to perform an experiment," Sherlock called from his room.

"Whatever." Mary smiled. "I knew there was something about those two. How are we going to do this?"

"Well, Camille wants to get a tattoo, but Cameron's not into that, so maybe they meet at the café?" I shrugged. "I'm not good at this."

"You've planned countless dates, why is this one so difficult?" Sherlock asked, entering the kitchen.

"I care about both of them very much, so I want this to go as well as it possibly can. My relationships aren't as important as other people's."

Sherlock gave me a funny look at that, but I tried (and failed) not to psychoanalyze it. "So, are we going to be like clingy friends that hide in the bushes while those two have their date at the café?" Mary cut in.

"I can have Mycroft move some cameras," was Sherlock's brisk reply. I smiled thinking about how little he wanted to refer to Mycroft as his brother. It was one of his adorable qualities. _Okay, shut up John._

"We should send someone non-threatening in, just in case it goes sideways."

"I'll do it," Mary offered. "They both know me, plus I'm female. John is more the setting up type they'd see through," I nodded, "while Sherlock would be quite suspicious in that situation." Sherlock glared at her, so I gave a play-nice look. He sighed in a very resigned and dramatic way.

"Sounds good. Where can your brother set up the camera room?" I asked him.

"Anywhere. Here would be beneficial considering I'm not in the mood to leave the flat."

"But in case you need to interfere, shouldn't you actually be closer to the café?" Mary inquired. Sherlock huffed annoyedly.

"She has a point," I told him.

Sherlock seemed to struggle for a few seconds, but finally let out a long breath and said, "If you think it would help, John, then alright. I'll have Mycroft fix your laptop's receiver so we're looking at all possible angles in the place." I glowed a bit with the thought that he trusted me enough to agree with Mary, whom he detested for an unknown reason. I'd asked him about it once, but he gave a very vague answer, which was so unlike him that I had to recover from the shock before asking anything else.

"The mission has begun!" Mary exclaimed, jumping a little with excitement.

* * *

"Why did we have to pick the table two meters away from the front door?" Sherlock asked.

"Close is best," Mary argued.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I hardly think the close proximity will aid us in this trivial mission."

"We're here for Cam and Lisbeth, not for your petty argument," I said. "Mary, sit across from us. I am having to separate two full-grown adults." And I also wanted to just sit next to Sherlock, but he didn't need to know that. I thought Mary suspected, though.

Sherlock lowered himself into the chair next to me, crossing his legs and staring at the laptop screen. The way the chairs were designed made it easy for me to brush my thigh against his. He shivered slightly, but didn't move away, I didn't want to push my luck, so I tried to pay attention to the screen as well. "I'm heading in, boys," Mary said, winking at me. I glared at her, but she just smiled.

"What purpose did the wink serve?" Sherlock asked, not tearing his eyes from the camera views.

I shook my head. "Not a clue," I lied.

* * *

Cam had no idea why Mary wanted to meet at a café. Camille always wondered about foul play, but Cam had just brushed it off. She was starting to regret it as she looked across the room to the grinning barista.

_Are you freaking kidding me? I refuse to be a part of this idiotic staring. I will take control and make you go talk to her, see if I don't,_ Camille threatened.

"If you take control, the both of us will end up heartbroken and depressed," Cameron muttered. Mary gave her a glance of knowing.

"You're talking to Camille in public, what's wrong?" Cam groaned; Mary could be too perceptive sometimes.

"That girl over there. Camille's gaydar insists we should go talk to her, but I think she's being irrational."

"You think she's pretty?" Cam nodded. "Hey, Lisbeth!" Mary yelled. The girl turned, and Cam shrunk down into her seat like she'd eaten one of those cookies from Alice and Wonderland. "There's someone over here that wants to speak to you!"

"Of course I can't ignore a request from John's friend," the barista said, walking to them. There was a little upsweep on the last word, Cam noticed, but she tried to shove it down in an attempt to not look...not right. But it was really cute, so the shoving down became very difficult. "Hello again, Mary. Your usual's on me if you tell me who's sitting next to you."

Any small amount that Cam had recovered from the shrinking was erased as she melted back into the chair. Why did she, Lisbeth, Cam corrected, have to be such a flirt? Cameron was so bad with flirts. Camille told her to grow a pair, but she was finding it very hard to listen with those green eyes trained on her.

"I'm Cameron Hooper," she managed to get out. "Also friends with John." _Not even a complete sentence, I'm disappointed, C_amille huffed.

"Lisbeth Ingridson." The barista held out a hand, which Cam shook. Lisbeth's hands were strong and callused, but thin-fingered, almost enveloping Cam's small hand. "Now, would you like some coffee? I make a mean drink based on just looking at you."

"Sure. If you guess right, I'll give you my number," Camille spoke up. Cameron was fuming and entirely angry that Camille had done that without her permission. This had nothing to do with protection; this was a romantic scenario! Lisbeth just kissed Cam's knuckles like a lord would the queen, and headed to the back counter. _Fucking why did you do that?! _Cameron asked.

"Because you were being a wimp. She's hot and agreed to make you a drink, accept it and kiss her," Camille answered. Mary giggled into her tea, pointing to all the hair that had exploded from Cameron's neat braid when Camille took over.

"Cam would like to tell you that the laughter isn't helping," Camille unhelpfully informed Mary.

"I think she needs to talk to Lisbeth. She's very nice and loves pretty much everyone. She even tolerates Sherlock."

Camille's mouth fell open. "Lisbeth tolerates the detective? Holy mother, is she looking freaking desirable right now."

"Not like I couldn't tell earlier. Sherlock found out first, before anyone else."

Her mouth twisted in disgust. "He hurt John and is a complete asshole, and I owe meeting that beautiful vision to him?"

Mary sighed. "I know the protector in you doesn't like Sherlock, but he set you up, or as he called it, 'performed an experiment on two willing individuals', and he makes John happy."

* * *

I blushed brightly, knowing neither one of those two could see me, but still feeling very embarrassed. "But what if I don't care? Neither of them have any intelligence. But back to the important subject, the gorgeous specimen is heading back this way."

Lisbeth entered the camera's view. She was smirking as she held out the drink to Camille. "Here you are. Taste it and weep."

Camille matched her smirk, taking a sip. Her face slackened, and I knew Lisbeth had done her amazing work again. The way she told it, she could look into people's eyes and know what they wanted. She'd done it to me, giving me something that reminded me of Sherlock but didn't cause any pain. I smiled wistfully at the thought of the drink. Bitter with dregs of sweet. Sherlock would dismiss it, but the people that frequented the café never did.

"Impressive," she said, and this time it was Cameron speaking. "How did you...?"

Lisbeth delved into an explanation, and as soon as she finished, she leaned close to Cam and whispered, "And I know you are not just Cameron Hooper. There are two of you." I laughed outright at how perceptive she could be. Lisbeth would be the ultimate secret agent. "Tell me your other name?"

"Camille Fredrick is what Sherlock called her. And here's our number." Cam wrote the digits in a flourish on a napkin, drawing a heart underneath. Lis grinned widely, but with a smirk embedded as she folded the paper and stuffed it down her bra. I groaned loudly. Why was that necessary? Cameron blushed, one of her hands shaking on the table.

"I'll be seeing you again," Lisbeth said. "You're so adorable, I might have to keep you in my flat." If Cam could have blushed any deeper, she would have.

"Thanks for everything, Lis," Mary interjected, pulling the speechless Cam away from the table and out the door. I wasn't prepared for how quickly they met us outside.

"You both saw that?!" Cam looked more than a little furious, but it was tainted with a red-faced crush.

"And I was right," Sherlock replied, ignoring what she said.

"Thank you so much, Mary, for helping us," I told her, kissing her cheek. She simply smiled and dragged Cam away to calm her down.

I turned to Sherlock, who had barely moved from his chair, staring straight ahead, but not looking at anything. "Are you okay?" I asked. He didn't answer, nor did he look at me, only stood up with my laptop and hailed a cab. I had to run to avoid missing the damn thing. I hadn't any idea what was wrong, because clearly something was, and he wouldn't tell me. I thought we were past this.

When we reached the flat, he merely climbed the stairs and walked through the open door, perching himself on the couch. "Alright, say something. Why are you acting like this?"

"I would have thought some of your previous habits had died. I was evidently incorrect in that assumption," he answered coldly.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I asked.

"I was referring to your tendency to move between women as one does beakers when performing multiple experiments. You've trained your sights on Mary, whom I detest almost as much as Mycroft, and it sickens me." He was pissing me off now.

"You have no jurisdiction over that area of my life. And no, I have no romantic interest in Mary! We are friends, nothing more!" My voice was steadily rising.

He smirked beautifully. "Try convincing yourself of that."

"You are such an idiot! I would never have feelings for her, and she knows why!"

"I am not an idiot, John! And any testament you have to her intelligence is proved false under the premise you want to use her for sexual release!"

_"You have no fucking idea what you're talking about!"_ I shouted, not caring if Mrs. Hudson heard us.

_"Then enlighten me, my dear flatmate!" _Sherlock shouted back. I didn't know why he was being like this, he had no reason for it, but I couldn't let him think he was dominant.

_"Mary saved me when you were gallivanting about the globe killing people! She is a friend that makes sure I'm _okay_, unlike you, who I don't even know..._" I trailed off, knowing what ended that sentence, but not able to say it.

"Oh John, you are so ignorant and stupid."

_"If I'm so ignorant and stupid, how did you not deduce that I'm in love with you?!"_

Sherlock froze. After several immovable seconds, he stumbled to his room and locked the door behind him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Do y'all hate me now? I actually kind of hate myself. Here's the next chapter.**

* * *

_"If I'm so ignorant and stupid, how did you not deduce that I'm in love with you?!" _

_Sherlock froze. After several immovable moments, he stumbled to his room and locked the door behind him. _

* * *

I could hear the slam of the lock into the doorframe too well. For a while, I knew I was in shock, because how else could I have not felt anything? No thoughts flitted through my head, not even the sluggish, vague ones that I barely caught before they disappeared. Sherlock wasn't in the room, but I didn't know why, nor have the brain cells to figure it out, until everything crashed down on me.

I'd confessed I loved him. And he'd ran from me.

Suddenly, I had a very teenage desire to curl up on the couch and cry, just as I did when he was dead. I had pushed Sherlock, the one who had never understood emotions, into a mess that I'd made. How could I have done that to him? How could I have forced him into this kind of situation?

_You're so worried about him, you don't even get that _you _are hurting right now._

It didn't matter if _I_ was hurting, he was my best friend, and I was at fault. I blinked a few times and walked down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom. Well, _walked _was a bad word to describe it. How do you say 'walked like you would die if you couldn't reach your destination'? Walked is simpler, but it didn't mean what I did.

His door had small burns and what looked like acid stains on it. I remembered the number of times I'd stood in front of this door, not knowing whether or not to step in while he was gone. Eventually, I charged in and collapsed on his bed, but that wasn't an option now. It would help me a lot though. "Sherlock, are you alright?" He didn't answer, but I heard shifting on his bed. "I'm so sorry I did that, I didn't mean to. I meant..." I cleared my throat, which had clogged with something I wouldn't be able to face. "We can forget about this; I know you'll delete it, but I will have to forget." My voice broke, and I knew he would see through me. "Oh fucking screw this. I can't forget like you can. This won't..." Tears were falling from my eyes, streaking my face. "Just please come out. I can't...God, I have no words now. The blogger without words." Laughter and crying mingled in a sort of colossal mixture, standing in front of his door. "Come out, Sherlock. It's such a mess," I murmured.

"John, I need to think. We will talk later." He sounded ruffled, when normally nothing could faze him.

"Okay." I felt like my mouth couldn't utter another full sentence. I was so tired right then, a mess of tears and bullet wounds, love and pain, sadness and steel, Sig Sauers and friends, the chase, and that which I wasn't able to escape: the reality that Sherlock didn't love me back.

* * *

Sherlock had pulled his knees into his chest, rocking back and forth with a careful, concentrated motion. John was in love with him. He had no idea why this shocked and strained him so much, why his partner's affection had shoved him off of a ledge over an abyss.

_"...like telling me that I'd made you up all along." _The pain in John's voice. _"You can't go about life not caring who you're affecting." _

_"Don't let me go." _Sherlock Holmes could not remember a single time in his life that he'd trusted someone enough to say it.

But John answered, _"Never."_

How could he have not seen it? The embraces, the looks, the beautiful gleam in his deep blue eyes, his hands, the _kisses_, the way Sherlock had wrapped his arms around the blogger, the genius didn't understand any of it. John wasn't supposed to have wound his way this far into the halls of his mind palace, he wasn't supposed to have left the mental room Sherlock had locked him in when he'd jumped, Sherlock wasn't supposed to hate Mary for just glancing at John, none of that was meant to happen.

None of Sherlock's thoughts could rearrange into one thing; they seemed to go every which way.

_"Thank you for coming for me." _

_"One more miracle, for me." _

_"Please...don't be dead." _

_"I...miss...you" _Sherlock had told him. It had burned coming out of his mouth, but once it was out, Sherlock wondered how it had been so hard to say. He had lied so many times; some of his last words to John before the fall were lies, and yet, John knew the truth.

_"I'll always forgive you, Sherlock." _His name sounded so resonant coming from John's lips. John had forgiven him, even though he didn't think he deserved it. _I never deserved him in the first place,_ Sherlock thought to himself. _John __told me he loved me before I left him, and he never gave up on me. _

The predicament lied in what all of this added up to. John loved him, the consulting detective with a well-hidden heart, and proved him wrong countless times. _"Please don't ever ever try to kill yourself again. I am alive because of you, and if you leave me, I will not stay alive for very long." _

Sherlock crawled into his bed, now that he realized why John had used it so much, and wrapped himself into a cocoon of sheets. It would take a lot of thinking and delving into his mind palace to organize all the information into a logical conclusion, especially since the emotions involved were monumentous and frightening to the genius. He would have to stay here until this was solved. And perhaps he would understand it after all this time.

* * *

I'd asked Cam over the phone for her to get me some of Lisbeth's coffee, because I knew subconsciously that I could not leave the flat. I told her to leave it on the threshold and knock once on the door. Her footsteps sounded worried, but I hadn't the mobility to comfort her. There seemed to be weights holding down my arms and legs. My back was against Sherlock's bedroom door, my hands nursed a mug of caffeine, and my chest festered with some strange pain that I knew didn't really exist.

Nothing moved; the air was still and cold. Somewhere in my head registered how cold it was, but everywhere else ignored it. There were far more important things to concentrate on.

What if he rejected me? Sherlock was never gentle about it; I'd leave with another hole blown through me.

What if he never came out?

I shivered. Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock. His name shouldn't have made me feel better. It became a sort of chant, a spell put on the blind and unknowing. _Such the pessimist. _

My eyes drooped closed after a few hours. I'd had such a long day, with the chasing of Cam and Lisbeth and Mary, and our fight, and my...confession. Sleep looked tempting: an oblivion of deep black oceans. I curled my arms around my waist, remembering when Sherlock did the same from 9:15 to 9:22. _Back when it was just you and I, and not all this other stuff. _I wondered why he'd been waiting then, waiting for a newscast that he could predict.

Or someone had told him about it.

I almost stood up, but my muscles didn't hold me long. I slid back down. Fixing this could wait just a few...minutes...more.

...

"Wake up, John," a quiet baritone said. "I need to tell you something."

"Intruder alert," I murmured. "Sherlock will take care of them. Sherlock will."

"John, I am going to have to wake you up the hard way if you do not recognize me."

I peeled one eye open. Gray-blue irises flecked with gold and green were the first things I saw. That was enough to make me open both of my eyes. "Sherlock-"

"Did I ever tell you why I jumped?" There was something ugly marring his beautiful voice. I wanted to hold him for a hundred years to make it go away.

"No."

He hummed under his breath. "Remember when Camille kidnapped you?" I nodded. "There were cameras stationed all over the house and surrounding area." I blinked in shock. Why the hell would there be cameras? "The person that put them there, the one watching the whole thing, was a man named James Moriarty. JM. The letter taped to the back of your head had his initials on it, and I actually have it right here." He slipped an envelope with a broken red seal from his suit jacket pocket. I took it carefully, accidentally brushing my fingers against his.

I reopened the letter, noticing how many times it had been folded and unfolded, over and over. The words inside cut through me. I'll burn the heart out of you. JM. A heart was drawn right next to it, and my name was inside of it.

"Moriarty and Camille saw, even if I didn't, how we were. You were my heart, and I knew something was going to happen to endanger you soon. He and I stood on St. Bart's roof, and he threatened your life unless I killed myself. I tried to tell him not to, but he killed himself before I could get him to stop. I had nothing else to do, John. I could not let you die."

"So you jumped."

"Yes. And then you wouldn't stay in the room I had you locked in. My mind palace was a very chaotic place when you weren't floating around to control it, so you came out. That had never happened before, and I didn't know what to make of it, so I ignored it.

"John, I'm so sorry for ignoring it. I'm sorry it took this long." Sherlock broke off, and I handed the letter back to him wordlessly.

I went to sit down in my chair, motioning for him to sit across from me. He didn't relax, in fact, he looked more jittery then ever. "Oh, Sherlock."

"What?" he asked nervously. I almost laughed at how nervous he was.

"You don't have to be scared. I'm not angry at you."

"Then why did I have to sit down?" I laughed that time.

"You woke me up. I'm going to be tired and want to sit."

Sherlock didn't respond for a while. "I have something to tell you."

I took a deep breath. "Alright. You can tell me anything."

"Stop with the deep breaths," he said. "It makes me think something's wrong."

"Fine." I took several exaggeratedly short breaths. "Now, tell me."

He tapped his fingers in what I recognized as the rhythm to the song he'd played for me once, after a nightmare. "I have feelings for you."

I felt paralyzed. "What?"

"I am in love with you."

"Me?"

"You."

"Dr. John Watson?"

He sighed. That was more like him. "Of course. Why is this so surprising?"

"Because you don't like people."

"Yes, I don't like _people._ You are not one of them. You are John, and you are special."

"You're not just saying that because I said it to you."

He rolled his eyes. "Stand up." I did, and he did as well. "Now, walk forward two steps." We were scarcely five centimeters from one another. "Close your eyes." My eyelids fluttered shut. "Evidence." I could almost feel his lips move, that was how close we were. And then I felt them.

Sherlock Holmes kissed me.

I was surprised for just a moment. A moment later, I was kissing him like he was air, like I needed him to survive. His kisses were sweet, cigarette smoke lingering between each one. I knew now that falling into it was okay. I could drown all I wanted. Sherlock wrapped his hands around my waist, pulling me flush against him. My hands gradually slid up his chest and into his hair. His tongue carefully swiped across my bottom lip, and I opened my mouth to let him in. Our tongues tangled in an exploration, mine of his mouth and his of mine. When it slowed, the kisses were even sweeter, the cigarette smoke dispersed in the first minute.

When we broke apart, Sherlock's face was flushed, and his beautiful cupid's bow lips were swollen. I was so lucky. So, so lucky. "I believe you now," I breathed.

He smiled, and it was a real smile, not the smirks and cold glances he gave Anderson and Donovan and Mycroft. His smiles are all mine, I thought to myself. "Would you like me to give you more reason?" he asked.

I grinned widely back. "Oh God yes."

* * *

**Telling you right now, this is not the end. **


	15. Chapter 15

**Now, this right here is fun time. Fluff!**

* * *

Lisbeth had contemplated earlier how Sherlock Holmes was the reason she'd met Cameron and Camille. It sounded so absolutely ridiculous that an American monkey could have pointed to random letters in Japanese characters to come up with it. And yet, she didn't particularly care about that. Mostly because Cam was sitting in her lap.

* * *

The way it had started was a visit from Cam a few hours after they'd first met. She looked nervous and sad, fidgeting with the end of her braided hair. Lisbeth noticed the other girl had a habit of doing that. "Hey Cameron! What would you like?" she asked, making sure to hide the worry for her.

"Oh, it's not for me." Cam's voice wasn't right either.

"Who's it for?"

"John," she sighed. That makes sense, Lisbeth thought. All of them were close enough to him to worry quite a bit.

"What's wrong?"

"Er..." Cam fiddled with the clasp on her watch. "I don't know. He's never asked me to get his coffee before, and he sounded really depressed on the phone. I couldn't hear Sherlock in the background, so it might have to do with him."

Lisbeth nodded, her brow furrowing. "I hope John's okay. That nutter did a doozy on John, leavin' him and all. Holmes should get his head outta his ass and see that." I turned around to the coffee machine. "Now, did 'e want his usual?"

"With an extra shot of espresso." She paused. "May I get the drink you made for Camille and I as well?"

Lisbeth grinned and mock-bowed. "But of course, madam."

She quickly but completely accurately made the two coffees, drawing hearts on both the cups. "Arrighty, here you are, Cameron."

The girl that stepped up wasn't Cameron. "Camille, how may I help you?" Lisbeth asked, leaning her elbow on the counter and smiling flirtatiously. Camille could handle it, but Lisbeth didn't want to scare Cameron. It was strange; normally she didn't think twice about blatantly flirting with people, female or male. Cameron was special, maybe. Maybe.

"You can tell me what you know about John and Holmes' _situation_. They say you're perceptive."

Lisbeth nodded. "They'd be right. Let's see. John and Holmes-"

"Just get to it already," Camille interrupted.

"I'm gettin' there, love. John obviously loves him, and he won't tell him yet. Though, there was quite a bit of progress the other day. Sherlock is an idiot about all personal matters, but he has some kind of extra feeling toward John. Most likely, the two of them will take fuckin' ages to get to any point of dating."

Cam flushed, and that was when Lisbeth knew she'd become Cameron again. "So we'll be watching this for a while before much happens?"

"Yep!" Lisbeth laughed. "How'd two female teenagers end up fussing over two thirty-five-year-old men?"

"I don't know." Cameron let out a light laugh as well. Lisbeth thought it was a beautiful, clear sound. However, she'd never fantasized about someone's laugh before.

"Why don't you stay here for a bit? John'll be okay without coffee." Lisbeth tried to ask coolly, but the usual lack of nervousness was leaving her.

Cameron blushed again. "Alright." She perched delicately on a stool, folding her hands in her lap.

"So. Cameron, what is your favorite color?"

Cam bit her lip, and Lisbeth had to stop herself from leaning over the counter to kiss the lip from her teeth. What the hell?! Where did that come from? Lisbeth had met this girl four hours ago, plus, there was nothing to prove she was lesbian. Lisbeth looked up when Cam said, "Green."

Green? Like Lisbeth's eyes on good days? Uh, no. Nope. That wasn't it. "Cool. Mine's probably..." She raked her gaze over the café. "Blue. Oil paint blue. Not iridescent or shiny, just the color."

"Why?" Cam tilted her head in questioning. The gesture was unbearably cute.

"Your eyes are that color, and they're more gorgeous than any other color I can think of," Lisbeth said truthfully.

Cameron went bright red, and covered her face with her hands. "You aren't being serious."

"If that's what you think my 'not serious' is, you do not want to see my serious."

"I just mean...I'm not very...anything." Lisbeth quirked an eyebrow. "I'm not special or anything like that."

"Obviously no one has ever told you that your eyes are their favorite color."

Cameron shook her head, still not removing her hands from her face. "No. No one's ever done that."

"Oh, sweetheart," Lisbeth murmured. Cam immediately stiffened. "I'm sorry, I didn't know that was bad to say," she quickly tried to recover from her mistake. Lisbeth never wanted Cam to be uncomfortable.

"No, it's okay. Someone used to call me that all the time, and now they're both a cheater and dead." Cameron laughed unhappily.

"I shouldn't have..."

"I told you, it's okay." Cam put her hands back on the counter, open and up, like she was examining them. "Tatum was her name. Camille killed her."

"That's awful. The whole business." Lisbeth sighed. This girl just had to be lesbian, too. Fate was either a bitch or the most awesome person alive. Why was Cam so...everything?

"Well, I should get this to John instead of sharing my sob story," Cameron said, grabbing the coffees and walking toward the door. "See you around."

"Call me Lisbeth," she couldn't help but say after Cam.

Cam just smiled, a soft smile with just the corners of her mouth twitched up, and went out the door. Not long after, Lisbeth's brother poked her in the back. "You like her, don't ya, sis?"

"Shut up," she answered.

* * *

The next day, Cameron was back, this time without any agenda. It made Lisbeth glow a little. "Hello."

"Hi, Cam. Your usual?"

She smiled. "I have a usual now. Should that make me happy?"

"Of course. You'll continue the John and Mary legacy."

"I'll take my usual then." Cam perched on a stool, crossing her legs and putting her hands in her lap. With the little glances Lisbeth sent her way, she noticed the tiny freckles on the brown-haired girl's cheeks. Lisbeth wanted to touch them, run a finger over each one, count them with kisses, mark them as hers...and holy shit, the coffee was too done!

"Sorry about that," she said, stirring in the slightest bit of espresso to make up for the mistake. Lisbeth handed the drink across the counter, pulling her hand quickly back to finger her cartilage piercing.

"It's alright." Cam looked up at her. "When did you get that?"

"The piercing?" Cameron nodded. "Oh, when I was fourteen, I came out to my parents that I liked girls, and my dad was so proud of me for doing it that he let me get a cartilage. Later, when I graduated high school, he gave me my first tattoo."

"He sounds amazing." Cam's oil paint eyes were shining, but Lisbeth couldn't figure out why.

"Any war stories you could tell me?"

"Well, my parents died in a car crash, so I've had to live with my aunt and uncle. I've done nothing to be proud of, however."

"You've assisted in keeping John alive. That is something to be proud of." Cameron smiled a little, not enough to ease Lisbeth's mind, but enough.

"Keeping him alive is definitely important-" Lisbeth reached to grab the coffee and carefully placed it on the ground behind the counter. Then she walked around to pull Cameron down under the counter with her. The two had gotten a bit off balance, and Cam landed in Lisbeth's lap. "What the hell was that for?"

"The two thirty-five-year-olds are here. And they will give us no end of crap if they see us here together." Cam covered her mouth with her hand, and again Lisbeth wanted to move it away. It blocked her lips; that had to be a crime somewhere.

"Hello, David," John said as he came in. "Where did Lisbeth go?"

"I dunno sir. She was just here. Can I get anything for you or your friend?"

"My usual." He paused. "Would you like anything, Sherlock?"

"Black, two sugars. And I'll be paying for it."

"No, Sherlock. I'll be paying." Lisbeth could barely hear the sound of lips meeting, and almost couldn't stop herself from squealing. "Alright, I guess he'll be paying."

"Thank you, John." There was a smirk in Sherlock's voice. The men walked across the café to sit down. Lisbeth knew not to come out until they'd gone, so she wrapped her arms around Cam's waist and stayed there. Cam was warm and smelled amazing, plus Lisbeth didn't mind at all the pleasant tingling and heating up below her stomach.

* * *

Sherlock and I had our first date in the café we'd made up in. I was kind of surprised that Lisbeth wasn't there, she normally worked quite a bit, but Sherlock just smiled and told me to wait for a little while. I didn't know what we were waiting for, but I trusted him. I would believe anything that sexy baritone said.

Apparently kissing me was a good way to get me to do what he wanted as well. But I was far too happy to care. I'd discovered the night before that he loved holding me, and I loved stroking his curls, so we spent a while doing that. I felt like I'd never been kissed before he kissed me, like he was my first. I wondered where he'd learned to make my heart beat so fast.

I could love him now. And he loved me back.

"John."

"Yes?"

"I think we should go see them now."

I tilted my head in questioning. "Who's them? I thought we were just looking for Lisbeth."

Sherlock smirked cutely. I kissed him, just because I could. "Well...John, I need to speak...you know when...ah...Cameron brought your coffee yesterday?" I nodded breaking away from him. "She was coming from the café, had talked to Lisbeth, and was planning to go back. Balance of probability: she's here, and we can check on my experiment."

I grinned. "Let's go then." He took my hand and pulled me over to the counter. David had gone into the kitchen, so we carefully went behind the counter and found...Lisbeth and Cameron, sleeping. Lisbeth had Cameron on her lap, her head laying on Cam's shoulder and her arms encircling Cam's waist. Cam had one hand on Lisbeth's thigh, and the other on top of Lisbeth's folded arms. Lisbeth's lips were not very far from Cam's neck, and I knew that if Cameron moved even a little, they would make contact.

"You knew, didn't you?" I whispered, trying not to wake them.

Sherlock kissed my cheek. "Of course I knew. Just like I knew with you."

We walked out of the café after I wrote a note to Lisbeth and Sherlock paid. "Sherlock, can we sit on the couch and watch telly for a while?"

"I will enjoy dissecting the plots filled with holes. And I will also enjoy you petting my hair."

I laughed. "Yes. That's what boyfriends are for."

Sherlock stopped walking. "Is that what we are?"

I said my next words cautiously. "If you want to be."

He smiled. "I rather like that. Come on, I'll hail a cab." I grinned back, pressing my lips to our clasped hands.

* * *

Cameron only knew she'd fallen asleep when she woke up. Someone was against her from behind, a girl, a very good-feeling girl. Her body was curved like Cam's never could be, soft and strong at the same time, beautiful. Cam knew her face was growing warm. She wouldn't mind staying there a bit longer.

The girl's hand had fallen down further than her waist, but not so far as to make her uncomfortable. In fact, uncomfortable was the farthest from what she was feeling. Cam felt _safe, _safe and loved. It had been a long time since she'd felt that way about someone her own age. She barely turned her head to look at who was holding her. Lisbeth. Instead of worrying, she nestled closer and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "When we wake up, I want to go on a date with you," she breathed. Cam could almost feel herself fall back asleep, her last thought being willing to kiss Lisbeth for real.

...

"Sis? Sis!" a boy's voice called out. Cam woke abruptly just as Lisbeth did. She realized again that it was the beautiful blonde girl holding her and relaxed back into her arms.

"Leave us be, David!" Lisbeth carefully shifted Cameron off of her, accidentally brushing her bra. "Thanks for tolerating me."

"It wasn't just-"

"Want to go out sometime?" Cam nodded numbly, almost in shock. Lisbeth nodded back, kissing Cameron on the forehead. "Let's do that then."


	16. Chapter 16

**It's been a little longer between chapters than I wanted, but I couldn't get this chapter to work well. Hope you like it. **

* * *

"Since when does the Yard hold a party for its employees?" Cameron asked me.

I rolled my eyes. "I don't know. More than likely, a serious crime will be committed in the middle of it, and we'll all be scattered. That's what Sherlock says, anyway."

I could hear Cam smile through the mobile. "So, how are you two?"

Just then, Sherlock came up behind me and kissed my neck, curling his arms around my waist. "Ah...amazing."

She laughed. "Finally you guys confronted your feelings! I'm so proud!"

"And have you done the same?" I asked, after kissing Sherlock on the nose. "Sherlock wants to know the results of his experiment."

Cameron didn't answer for a few seconds. "None of your freaking business, Mr. I'm-not-gay," Camille interjected.

"Is that a good none-of-your-freaking-business or a bad one?" I ignored the jab.

She didn't answer quickly. "None of your freaking business."

"Camille, can you get Cameron back on the phone?"

There was a slight pause before, "Sorry about that."

"No problem. So? Any reply for us?"

"Er..." I waited as patiently as I could. "Yeah. Lisbeth and I are dating now."

Sherlock smiled and kissed me again, while I said, "That's great!"

"Well, not as great as the two of you telling the entire Yard that you're shagging!" a voice yelled from near Cam.

I swore I could feel Cameron blush. "Lis, sweetheart, if you want to talk to them, you could ask for the phone," Cam said, but it was muffled, like she had her hand over the speaker.

"We need to get ready," I said hastily, trying to avoid any more comments from Lisbeth. My face was turning bright red. "See you later. Say goodbye to Lis for us."

* * *

Cameron laid her mobile on the counter. "You made them feel embarrassed. They probably haven't done much more than kiss. You know how Sherlock is."

"Or," Lisbeth said, beginning to run her fingers up and down Cam's back, "they've done quite a lot of shagging and don't want to tell anybody about it. This is also John we're talking about." Cam tried very hard to keep her attention off those fingers, but she failed badly. If her hand moved any farther down, Cameron wouldn't be able to do anything except possibly melt.

"I doubt that," Cam answered. Lisbeth grinned, moving her hand to Cam's front.

"I'll always argue. I'm sure John and Sherlock love touching each other as much as I love touching you." And there went all Cam's hopes of not melting.

"You have to work," Cameron said, gently pushing Lisbeth's hand away. "Not that I wouldn't want it later."

"I'll hold you to that," the blonde replied with a wink, strutting off. At least, Cam thought it was more strutting than walking. That girl was far too sexy to only walk. _Alright, quit with the fantasizing,_ Camille said.

Camille knew that things couldn't get much better for any of them. John and Sherlock were together, Moriarty was dead, and her beloved Cameron had a girlfriend that loved her for who she was and would never cheat on her. Lisbeth was like a godsend: beautiful, green-eyed, protective, caring, always smiling and willing to listen. Camille knew for a fact that she didn't deserve her, but was happy Cameron did.

When would be a good time to tell Cameron?

* * *

"Sherlock?" I called into the sitting room. He was laying on the couch, eyes closed. I immediately quieted down; I'd been wanting him to have a kip the past couple days. Sherlock had already dressed in a suit and his plum-colored shirt that I loved for the Yard's party. I knew he'd insult three-quarters of the people there, and then get to Anderson and Donovan, but I also knew he'd want to flaunt the two of us, and that was the reason he was going in the first place. He liked bragging that I was his.

I smiled down at him before kneeling to kiss his forehead softly. I needed to get into my nice things as well. My nice things weren't exactly a suit, but Sherlock had said many times that he liked my ugly jumpers. Heading back into our now-shared room, it used to be just Sherlock's, I located the closet and searched through it. Coming up with very little, I chose a navy button-up and some jeans.

When I came back out, Sherlock was shifting on the couch, moving just slightly to wake up. God, I wanted to touch that messy hair, so I did. He nestled into my touch, almost purring. "You know, you're quite like a cat," I said, smiling at his reaction.

"Cats are admirable creatures," he replied, a hoarseness in his voice. "They do whatever they want, and none can stop them. They also look down on humans."

I laughed. "All I'm hearing are more of your similarities to cats." Sherlock sat up to kiss me properly.

"You're a lovely waking-up present," he whispered into my lips. "Not boring at all."

"Glad you think so," I whispered back. Neither one of us spoke for a little while, breathing quietly. "We have to get to Scotland Yard HQ in a half hour."

He rolled his eyes. "They're all imbecilic. You shouldn't have to listen to them."

"You owe Lestrade an apology, and," I paused, "Anderson and Donovan deserve a lovely shock, don't you think?" None of them knew Sherlock was back yet, since there hadn't been any big cases lately.

He grinned evilly. "Shock sounds nice."

"Good." I kissed him again. "We need to go."

"Alright." He took my hand and pulled himself up, then pulling me out the door. Mrs. Hudson called her goodbye from her flat, and my boyfriend (I loved calling him that) and I hailed a cab.

* * *

"This doesn't look like the place for a party," Sherlock remarked.

"It's basically a police station," I told him. "Of course not."

"Shall we?" he said, offering his arm like one of those proper people from the movies.

"Yes." I took his arm, and we walked inside. The place was dark, music was pounding, and I noticed beer in plastic cups everywhere. Sherlock wrinkled his nose adorably. We didn't spot anyone we knew in the first couple rooms, but once we reached the third, I saw someone. "Molly!"

"Hello, John!" she yelled over the music. "How are you? I haven't seen you in a while!"

"I'm great, thanks!"

"My niece has someone now!"

"Yes, she told us!"

Molly finally looked to see who I was with. "Oh! That's absolutely lovely! I'll see you guys later?"

"Yes!" She walked off to her new boyfriend, whom I heard from Cam was named Tom. He looked really a lot like Sherlock; it appeared Molly had a type. Now, we just had to track down Greg, Anderson, and Donovan, and then we could go home.

In fact, we found none of them first. Toward the middle of the station, Sherlock spotted someone in a corner that instantly turned his mouth downward. "Why are you here, Mycroft?" he asked annoyedly.

And Mycroft, in his perfectly pressed three-piece suit, answered, "I work with the Yard far more often than you would care to admit, brother mine. They invited me, so it would be terribly rude to not show my face."

"You just like intimidating people." Sherlock had scorn in his voice, and I squeezed his hand to try and get rid of it.

"You're here for no less of a reason. Hello, John."

"Hello," I said. "How's the British government?"

"I do not run the British government, contrary to popular belief." Mycroft huffed. "Well, if that bit of petty socializing is over, I need to speak with Gregory."

"Who is that?" I told him it was Lestrade. For some reason, my gorgeous boyfriend never remembered the man's name. "First-name basis, are you?" Sherlock asked bitingly. I pressed my lips to his cheek and he quietly apologized. "Take us with you then; we need to speak with Lestrade as well." I smiled. Progress.

Mycroft moved awkwardly through the crowd, but soon we reached the DI. He had a cup of beer in his hand and looked like he'd drank most of it. An unlit cigarette was in the fingers of his other hand. Anderson and Donovan were nearby, making out blatantly. I stifled a laugh. Now no one had to wonder if they were sleeping together. "Hello, Mycroft!" he shouted. "Joining the party, I assume!"

"Yes, Gregory," he replied coolly. "And I brought some people to see you."

Greg looked over to see us, and once he did, his face dropped. Sherlock took advantage of his shock to say, "Those things will kill you," while pointing to the cigarette. A few seconds passed with no one talking, but then Greg lurched forward to hug Sherlock.

"I'm so glad you're alright. You gave everyone a fright." Sherlock didn't expect that sort of response, I could see it in his face.

"I have to apologize," Sherlock said, once I gave him a prompting look. "For the dying and not coming back for years."

Greg nodded. "Accepted. You might want to give Philip and Sally the whole I'm-alive thing, though."

Sherlock smirked. "Of course." He walked over to where Anderson and Donovan were _detained_, tapping Anderson on the shoulder. He looked rather pissed to be interrupted.

"What the hell do you want?" he asked angrily, not turning around.

"You'll be quite interested to know, I assure you," Sherlock said snarkily. Anderson looked at him, and immediately panicked, Donovan soon after him. "Apparently, you will never be rid of me."

I laughed at their expressions. "Do you think they can recover from this, Sherlock?"

"They'd better," he muttered, tugging me into him. I grinned. If those two could have their PDA, than Sherlock and I could as well. He bent down and kissed me hard enough to leave a bruise. I was greatly enjoying the shocks we were giving people.

"Here's the other news," I said, turning toward them once we were done. "Sherlock and I are dating." They gave us blank looks. "What, do you think he paid me?" They shook their heads. "Lovely." I turned to my beautiful, catalytic, brilliant partner. "Now that we've done what we came here to do, let's go home."

Sherlock nodded, kissing me lightly. "That sounds perfect." And so, we swooped out of the Scotland Yard headquarters, hand in hand, grins that said we knew something the rest of the people didn't. Or if they did, we didn't care.

* * *

Lisbeth cornered Cameron at the end of her shift. Cam had taken to coming to the café right after school finished and staying until the place closed, doing homework, or helping if the café was busy, or just sitting and giving off what Lisbeth liked to call her 'jump me' vibe. When she did that, it made it very hard for Lisbeth to work without touching her.

As soon as the clock ticked its minute hand to the zero, Lisbeth quickly flipped the Open sign to Closed, locked the doors, and walked over to Cam, trapping her against a wall between her hands. "Hello, sweetheart," Cameron said cockily. "Feeling a bit _needy_?"

"You are learning things from Camille, and it's not funny," Lis responded, pressing her lips along the other girl's jaw, making a path.

"Camille and I haven't been speaking as much lately, so no." Lisbeth made her way up to Cam's face, tracing it with light brushes of her mouth.

"That feels really good," Cameron murmured, running her hands up Lisbeth's back and shoulders. "We made a good decision, what, a month ago? I love dating you."

"If you keep being sweet, I'll have to eat you up." Cam shivered. Lis had finally gotten to her lips, and when they met, both girls felt an explosion. Lisbeth had known since their first date that she loved Cameron with her whole heart, but she wanted to wait to say so for a while, until Cameron felt the same. She'd never been this nervous or excited. Plus, Cam was an exceptional kisser. Exceptional at anything that would make Lisbeth want her, want to love her.

An unmeasurable amount of time passed before Cameron pulled away. But as Lisbeth looked at her, she wasn't Cameron at all. "Hello, Camille."

"Lisbeth, do you love Cameron?" Camille sounded not right, but the question occupied more of Lisbeth's mind.

"Yes. I love her more than anything," she answered without hesitation.

Camille smiled sadly, an expression Lis never thought she would see. "I thought so. She's going to need you more than ever soon."

"Why?" Lis asked.

Camille shook her head. "Goodbye."

When Cameron came back, tears were running down her face. "What's wrong?" Lisbeth asked, brushing away the drops.

"Camille's gone. She died."


	17. Chapter 17

**Sorry to dump that on you at the end of the chapter. **

* * *

"What do you mean, she's dead?" Lisbeth had a serious sense of foreboding, but she wanted to make sure it was wrong.

Cameron, because she really was just Cameron now, shook her head and took three slow breaths before speaking. "Camille asked if you loved me, didn't she?" Lisbeth numbly motioned yes. "What did you tell her?"

"I told her that I love you more than anything." Cam smiled, the smallest glimpse of one, and barely touched her lips to Lisbeth's. When she pulled away, there were more tear tracks marring her cheeks.

"Thank you." Cameron let Lisbeth run her thumb over the wet lines.

"So, what happened?" Lisbeth asked. Cam sat down in one of the fluffy chairs near the cafe's entrance, beckoning Lisbeth to follow her. Not that Lisbeth needed that sort of thing. She would follow Cameron anywhere. She carefully pulled Cam into her arms, holding her tightly. Lisbeth didn't think it would be too tight; some people couldn't have it tight enough in moments like this.

"I'll tell you what happened."

* * *

_"Hello, Cameron," Camille said when she woke up. "Did you sleep enough? You know the experts say eight to nine hours at the minimum for teens." _

_Cameron rolled her eyes slightly. "Yes, I got eight and a half. Happy?" _

_"Most definitely." _

_Camille didn't speak for a second. "You're going to the café again today? Or is it the tattoo parlor?" _

_"The café. But if you actually want to pick out a tattoo this time, you have my full approval." _

_Camille huffed. She liked the idea of presenting to everyone who cared to look something that was important to you like a tattoo did, but it was Cameron's skin, and therefore Cameron's decision. Camille didn't get a say, but Cam tried to give her one. "Maybe a small one. Like John's." _

_"But I can't copy the swallow thing. That's only for him and Sherlock." Cam paused. Camille could somewhat follow the pattern of her thoughts, but they soon overwhelmed her, and she went back to ignoring them. "How about something bright green?" _

_"Associating color. The sign of a true couple." Camille enjoyed waxing romantic about Lisbeth and Cameron together. _

_"Yes, yes, the color association," Cameron said annoyedly. "Any ideas for the actual design?" _

_Camille thought for a moment. "How about a feather, since she made your life lighter?" _

_Cameron smiled. "I like that one." _

_"Plus, it could be very fun depending on where you put it." Camille smirked, and could feel Cam blush darkly. "Especially since Lisbeth would be your artist." _

_"Shut up," Cameron muttered. Although, some incredibly tempting images were rising to the surface of what exactly could happen in such a situation. _

_"You love it," Camille said. "Speaking of love, do you think this one's real?" _

_Cameron smiled beautifully. "I love Lisbeth more than anything. With Tatum, it felt like a crush, like she was tolerating me for the physical aspect. But Lisbeth isn't like that. I kind of straight-on crashed into it." _

_"And there's no 'physical aspect' yet," Camille added. "You guys haven't had sex." _

_"Okay, enough of that topic," Cameron interrupted. Camille would have grinned if she had control of her body. This was perfect, but there was something else on her mind. If Lisbeth loved Cameron really, and John and Sherlock stayed, and Aunt Molly let Cam live with her, then Cameron's future would be so much better than the prospects had been when Camille was created. And those things were all too possible. There would be a future without Camille. _

_Camille tried to stop thinking about it as the day went on, but it popped up in the most random places. Every time she looked around at the life Cameron had made for herself, she wondered what further place she could have in it. Cam had protectors, many of them. _

_When Camille remembered what life had been like before the case, with its beautiful highs and treacherous lows of drugs, and sex and breaking and a constant up and down of abuse, she knew that was what she had been created for. This wasn't it. In this new world, there were highs and more highs, happiness, protection from abuse, building and loving and just..._

Everything.

_Cameron had everything she could have ever wanted, including a girlfriend that didn't treat her like shit. Her 'guardians' were still shit, but Camille knew that wouldn't last long. _

_Camille wasn't needed anymore. _

_It made her sad to think of it, of course, being without the one that created her, but Camille knew she needed to do it. Cameron would be alright. But Camille had to do some checking first. _

_The phone conversation went well. That was just extra evidence that Sherlock and John could care for Cam when Camille was gone. She asked Lisbeth whether she truly loved Cameron before she went to make sure it would last. _

_This was the hardest part. Letting go. "Cameron?" _

_"Yes, Camille?" Cam's voice was just curious, not knowing anything was wrong yet. _

_"I'm saying goodbye." _

_"What do you mean?" Her voice had not-trusting splashed all over it. _

_"I can die, you know. And it's my choice to. I'm leaving you with why so you can look it over." _

_"But you can't go!" Cameron protested. "I need you." _

_"No, my sister." If Camille could cry, she would have. "You don't need me anymore." _

_"Yes, I-" _

_"I love you. Always remember that." Camille let herself go, the self that she constantly had to struggle to hold on to being an intruder in Cam's body. Well, that was all over now. She faded away, and her final thought was if people thought she was a figment of imagination. _

* * *

Cameron nestled into Lisbeth's arms, crying against her shoulder. The one person who she'd always known she could count on was gone, and no one could bring her back. "Cameron?" her girlfriend asked.

"Yeah?" Her normally formal-like speech slipped.

"Can I call John?" Cameron nodded numbly. Lisbeth took her mobile from her bra and speed-dialed John. The two men were at the Yard party, and Cam hated to disturb them, but the phone was ringing before she could take it back.

"Lis?" a cheerful voice asked from the phone. Both girls heard how quiet it was on the other side of the signal.

"Where are you?" Lisbeth kissed Cam lightly on the forehead after asking.

"Actually, we're in a cab on the way to the flat. Why?"

"Camille's dead."

The silence from the other end of the phone was deafening. "What do you mean? Camille was created, shouldn't Cameron have jurisdiction over that?" Sherlock wondered, having taken the phone from his boyfriend.

"No. Camille didn't think she was needed anymore and so she...left somehow."

"Where are you two?" John butted in.

"The café. Please come quickly." Lisbeth could hear John offer extra to the cabbie to get them there faster.

"Be there in a few. Thank you for telling us, Lis." The line went dead, and Lisbeth set her phone on the side table next to the chair her and Cameron were occupying.

Cam hadn't stopped crying, and the tears were dripping down her face and neck. Lisbeth did her best to wipe them away, but more and more escaped her hand. "Shh, darling, it'll be alright." Lisbeth was trying to ignore the tears that were attempting to leak from her own eyes at how distraught her girlfriend was. She never wanted Cam to be hurt, so this was agonizing. If she could keep Cameron from everything that made her cry, then she would want nothing else.

God, she was in deep.

"I love you, I love you," Lisbeth breathed ceaselessly, weaving her fingers through Cameron's hair, lips tasting salt as she kissed Cam's nose, eyelids, cheeks, jaw, forehead, and neck. Cam began to calm down after a few minutes of this, breathing more regularly again.

* * *

I tapped my fingers restlessly on the seat in front of me. "Do you think she's okay?" I asked Sherlock.

He pressed his lips to my cheekbone. "She'll be okay, if not now, then soon. She has Lisbeth, and us, and Molly."

I looked at him with thanks. Sherlock just nodded, laying his head on my shoulder. "We'll be alright," he said.

The café showed up soon enough, the lights not off even though the place closed a bit ago. Two figures were curled up in the good chair near the window. Sherlock and I entered, the bell signaling, not that anyone in there didn't know, that we'd come in. Cameron's face wasn't even visible, being buried in Lisbeth's chest. Lisbeth looked so tired, I wanted to make her go home and sleep, but she would never leave Cam in a time like this. "Hello, John," she whispered. "Don't make too much noise, Cam's asleep."

I knew Sherlock took extra effort to tiptoe over to them. "I hate seeing her like this," Lis said.

"I know," I replied.

"It's evident that you're suffering just as much," Sherlock added, baritone voice barely audible.

Lisbeth didn't say anything after that, but we both knew what Sherlock said was true. "We can take you two to the flat if you want," I offered. "You need to take a very long kip, and sleep helps." Lis nodded, carefully arranging herself to carry Cam out of the building. Cam's head was cradled in the joint of Lisbeth's shoulder and arm, while her legs were anchored under Cam's knees. Princess-style, I thought ruefully.

The cab still hadn't left the curb, the cabbie checking his mobile, and we all piled in, Lisbeth holding Cam like her life depended on it, and Sherlock and I left with the other half of the cab, very, very close together. I breathed him in quietly, twirling one of his curls around my finger. "Look at us," he breathed, still hoping Cam wouldn't wake.

"What about us?" I asked him.

"We're all so in love, with each other, and with Camille." I kissed his neck scarf.

"Yes. We are." No one else spoke over the rest of the cab ride.

Mrs. Hudson noticed everyone right away, fussing about after us. She went to make the bed in my old room, asking if Lisbeth needed other blankets or pillows, and what kind of biscuits she should bake once we were all awake. Sherlock asked for chocolate, of course, and Mrs. Hudson hurried back downstairs to get everything ready.

Lisbeth, with Cam still in her arms, walked to the bedroom staggeringly, like she'd had too much to drink. I'd seen that far too many times, but I knew for certain that wasn't the cause. Sherlock sat in his chair, hands under his chin, until they were settled. Once there was silence from the room, I went over to him and held out my hands. He took them and stood up. We didn't move for what felt like a lifetime, staring at our clasped hands.

"I love you," I whispered. I had to say it, because Camille had gone so easily, and I knew he could do the same. Only, he would die by a gunshot wound, or a clever knife, or poison, and I wouldn't be able to do it again, all the grief, because next time he would be really dead. I wouldn't be able to _do _it; live with that.

"I love you, John." When he looked at me, I knew he could hear what I was thinking.

"I love you," I repeated. He smiled, just the barest glimpse of one.

"No matter how many times I say it back," Sherlock started, moving closer, "it will always be true." He pulled me into a gentle kiss, sliding his lips against mine softly. When we broke apart, he let go of only one of my hands and led me to our bedroom.

"I actually need to sleep," he remarked. I laughed very quietly.

"And I do too." He didn't even bother to change out of his suit, falling ungracefully on the bed once he'd pulled back the covers. I climbed in after him, cuddling into Sherlock's body with my legs entwined with his.

"Goodnight, darling," I said.

"Goodnight, John." And he made my name sound like the most beautiful word in the English language.

* * *

Lisbeth knew Cameron was asleep. She knew that this wouldn't get better for a while. She knew Cam would have to go home later. But there were some things that had to be said before all of that came up behind them and couldn't be ignored.

"Cameron Elise Hooper, I will never leave you. No matter what happens to you, or me, or John, or Sherlock, or your aunt Molly, or anyone else you care about, _I will never leave you by yourself._"

Cameron didn't answer, and Lisbeth didn't expect one, but she felt lighter for just having said it. "I love you, Cam. Goodnight." Lisbeth fell asleep almost immediately: a dreamless, welcoming sleep.


	18. Chapter 18

"Alright, what are you hiding?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Lisbeth's question. "Whatever are you talking about?"

She groaned. "You may be able to lie to Cameron, but you can't lie to me. Get over yourself."

"Fine," Sherlock huffed. He hated being outsmarted, especially by someone that quit uni within one year. "You're a female, aren't you?"

"Darlin', I believe you've inspected my physical appearance as a girl relating to Cam's attraction to me no less than seven times. Do I really have to mention my gender again?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "A simple yes or no would have sufficed. I need your expertise on marriage, specifically proposals, and females tend to have more of that knowledge than males."

Lisbeth's mouth fell open. "Who're you and what've you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

He flushed. Dammit, he had wanted to avoid all this nonsense, ask for what he needed, and leave quietly. They were almost creating a scene in the café and it made him uncomfortable. "It's still me. Now, your knowledge of proposals, if you please." Ugh, saying please made him sound desperate.

Lis laughed joyously. Some customers looked over in annoyance; Sherlock shrunk down in his seat. "I swore it would be the other way around."

"Hm?"

"I thought I would have to spell it out for you. I didn't think you would have the guts to pro-"

"Keep it down!" Sherlock whispered. "I believe the idiom is 'walls have ears', and my ridiculous brother has far too many ears himself."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Have any ideas?"

"About what?"

"The _proposal,_" she whispered exaggeratedly.

"Obviously not, otherwise why would I ask you?" Sherlock snapped nervously. Lisbeth gave him a look that she probably borrowed from John. "Er..." He stared at his shoes. Sherlock didn't think it would be this hard. "I found a ring, and...I don't know what to do now."

"Can I see it?"

Sherlock fumbled in his coat pockets. "Here." He was actually rather proud he'd found it. The ring was platinum and steel, harder than few substances he knew of. He'd tested it under several extreme conditions to make sure it would survive no matter what the two of them went through. A single diamond was set into the metal, small and inspicuous, but beautiful. Engraved on the inside of the band were the initials JHW.

Lisbeth stared at it in awe. "God, you're serious."

"Why wouldn't I be? He is _everything_, and I'd be the greatest of imbeciles to let him go."

Lis examined the ring for a few more moments before handing it back. He cradled it close to his chest, reassuring himself that it was back to him. "So, how do you want to go about this?"

"I'm not good at romance, you know that."

She thought for a minute, drumming her fingers on the counter. When a customer yelled for her, she poked her brother David to get it. "You know he'll love whatever you do."

"That doesn't help at all."

"How about dinner-"

"Boring. Sounds like the kind of thing Mary would like."

Lisbeth giggled. "You still haven't gotten over that, have you? It's been how long?"

"Eight months, nine days."

"Eight months and nine days since _John_ told you he loved you for the first time. He still does. No boring proposal will change that."

Sherlock didn't say anything back for a while. The whole problem was that he sometimes had difficulty _showing _John he loved him rather than just telling him. He really didn't want to mess this up, because he was scared of doing it wrong and disappointing John. Sherlock had done that far too many times already. "Another question then. Should I ask anyone for permission?"

"John's parents are dead, right? So you should probably at least let his sister know. You don't need to ask for permission, because anybody deaf and half-blind can understand you two are in love."

Sherlock winced a little at her terms, but nodded. "Well, tell me if you have any ideas. Nothing boring or mundane; I will not pick up my phone."

Lisbeth nodded back. Sherlock turned and strode to the door, but before the bell could sound that he'd left the café, Lis called after him, "Just do it when it feels right!"

"Thank you," Sherlock said back. He didn't even bother thinking about saying it, he realized in the cab. John really had changed him.

* * *

I tapped my fingers against the table in the rhythm of the song Sherlock wrote for me. I was worried, and for some reason Sherlock hadn't said anything about it. "Here you go," Cameron said, putting down my coffee and sitting across from me. "What's the matter?"

"Sherlock's hiding something. He'll go out for long periods of time, and when I ask where he's been he'll give a vague answer. When he looks at me, he looks scared and contemplative. Once, he held me on the couch for six hours straight. Do you think he has cancer?"

Cam shook her head. "I don't think he has cancer. You're a doctor, you would have seen the signs."

I sighed. "But I don't know what's wrong with him and that really worries me. At least we can rule out cheating on me, but I'm completely lost other than that."

"Well, at least you didn't doubt him there. Sherlock would never cheat on you, no matter what."

"Thank you." She smiled softly and I took a sip from my mug. "Do you have any ideas?"

"No. Sorry. I don't know any illnesses that you couldn't see, you would have known if he killed someone, and he loves you more than anything, so I'm out of luck."

"Oh well." I looked out the window. "Hopefully we'll get a case or something. He's been bored lately, too. He keeps looking for his cigarettes."

"Are you sure that's a sign of boredom?" Cameron asked. "If he was nervous or sad, he'd go looking for them."

That didn't help my worriedness at all. "I'll make sure they're in a better spot so he can find them easier. Maybe they'll make him feel better."

"Plus, you have this thing with cigarettes and Sherlock together." Cam smirked.

"Yes, yes." I stood up. "Thank you for your help."

Cam nodded. "Anytime. I hope whatever it is goes away." I hoped so too.

* * *

It took virtually no time at all to locate John's sister Harry. Her flat was prosaic, dull-colored, and alcohol-smelling. Sherlock flinched at the assault on his senses. He wanted to be in and out.

"Is that you, Johnny?" a loud, slurred voice asked. The woman that stepped in front of him was obviously intoxicated. Her hair was brown, cut close to her head, and her eyes were almost blue, but with brown streaks. She'd clearly been under quite a bit of stress before she started drinking, lines in her forehead, and her ex-wife had showed up perhaps two weeks ago, judging by the pile of dirty laundry that had accumulated since that time. Too typical, it was almost sad.

"No. My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah, the big detective that my brother raves about. It's funny, you're practically a god in his eyes. This is about him, isn't it? You look too serious for this to be just a hello, plus Johnny would have told you to stay away from me."

"He's done nothing of the sort. In fact, he worries about you sometimes. And yes, this is about him."

Harry waved an extravagant hand at Sherlock. "Alright then. Spit it out."

"I'm going to ask John to marry me," he said, standing taller.

Harry looked him over. "So what are you here for?"

"You are his only living relative, and so I'm asking your permission to marry him."

She stared at him for a second, and then burst out laughing. "Oh, that was priceless. You, asking me, the drunk younger sibling of Johnny, if you can marry him! God, of course you can, if you're so willing! Who am I to stop you?" Harry paused. "John deserves someone like you, someone who would ask the drunk sister before making a move." She made a wide gesture. "Go ahead. Invite me to the wedding, will you?"

"I will," Sherlock promised. He turned to walk back out the way he'd come, but Harry stopped him with a shaking hand.

"Treat him well. Don't be like me." Sherlock nodded. He would never leave John, no matter what. "Good. Now, get out of here and propose to my big bro."

* * *

Lisbeth found Cameron bustling around her kitchen when she came back from work. She stood back to watch her girlfriend for a moment. Cam was wearing a tight, sleeveless shirt that accentuated all the right places, and capris she'd borrowed from Lis. She had never seen Cameron look that good. Holy crap.

Cameron hadn't noticed her yet, so Lisbeth took the opportunity to stare a little while longer. Cam's hair was back in a perfect fishtail braid, since Camille wasn't around anymore to let strands escape. It made Lis sad thinking about it, so she steered away from that train of thought. Her legs were really long, and the capris drew attention to that. But there was one feature that Lisbeth couldn't help running her gaze up and down as Cam turned to the side.

Cameron smiled at Lisbeth when she saw her standing there. "Hi. How was your shift?"

Lis walked over and hugged Cam close. "Pretty good. Holmes came in to ask me about something, but everything else was normal."

Cameron pulled away, her eyebrows coming together in concern. Lisbeth wanted to kiss the V formed between her eyebrows to make it leave. "What about? John's been worried sick about him. Apparently, he's been leaving the flat for long periods of time, and not saying where he's going, and John is wondering if he has cancer."

Lisbeth couldn't help but laugh. "What? This isn't funny," Cam reprimanded.

"It is though. John's worried there's something wrong, but Sherlock was asking me how to propose to him."

Cam looked at Lis with a loving, tender gaze. Lisbeth still hadn't gotten used to that after eight months of dating her. "That's amazing! I'm so happy for them!"

Lisbeth kissed her on the tip of her nose. "It hasn't happened yet. We still have to make sure Sherlock doesn't screw this up."

"He won't." Cam frowned cutely. "Those two were made for each other."

"Of course not." Lisbeth lined Cam's freckled cheeks with kisses before pecking her lips a few times.

"Come on, that's cruel," Cameron murmured, kissing her long and hard. Lisbeth could feel her limbs turning to jelly. But she reminded her limbs that they could do what they wanted when she had finished what she wanted to say.

"You know," she began, trailing a finger down Cam's neck to her shoulder, "you have many gorgeous aspects, but there is one I'm currently very enamored with."

"What could that possibly be?" Cameron asked, exhaling deeply as the finger reached the middle of her back, still going down.

"I do enjoy your front very much. Your face and torso and legs, but your back...God. Just the curve of it, like the waves children draw, and the ridges of your spine, and your shoulder blades just barely visible anymore since we met, and..." Lisbeth lost her sentence in the bruising kiss Cameron gave her.

"That's enough now. You and I will get into a quite compromising position if you keep it up." Cam's pupils, Lis noticed for the first time, were about to swallow up the rest of her iris.

"Compromising sounds very good," Lis answered, a slight smirk on her face. "What sort of 'compromising'? I'm quite interested."

Cameron glanced at the door. "How long until your brother or father comes home?"

"Maybe two or three hou-" Cam cut her off by sealing her lips over Lisbeth's.

* * *

Sherlock paced through the flat, holding the ring in his hands. He had no distractions, his thoughts moved too fast, and he _craved _a cigarette.

He was scared, and it was ridiculous, but he couldn't help it. He had his permission, and now he had to actually _propose. _Lisbeth did not aid him, only saying 'do it when the time is right', which was so unspecific he could have proposed at John's funeral! Specificity would have helped, but no, the great Sherlock Holmes was stuck in his shared flat, having not one single idea about what to do!

He muttered under his breath certain curse words John had used when he'd left the head in the fridge and let acid melt through the table and several other incidents.

Sherlock curled onto the couch forlornly, after locking the ring in his violin case. He couldn't afford John finding it. Thoughts buzzed through his mind with about as much use as food during a case. Nice restaurant? No, Sherlock would eventually be kicked out. Park? Out of character. Romantic dinner at flat? Wouldn't eat. What would make John happy? Gesture of love and care. Er...Showing up at work? No, did he even work at the clinic anymore? Of course he did. Sherlock refused to ask Mary. He would rather die. Normal day and just popping the question? Dull. Stupid. Infernal. Think, think, _think. _

In his mind palace, he completely didn't notice the object of his frantic search enter the flat. "Sherlock?" John looked down. "Oh, there you are." He bent down to kiss Sherlock gently. Sherlock responded, basking in the attention. He needed it after this long, needed the little touches and kisses.

"Hello, John," he said once they'd stopped kissing.

John smiled. "So, how are you?"

"I need a case. I would settle for less than a seven, I just need it." Sherlock knew if he didn't get out of his mind soon, something drastic would occur.

John nodded, stroking a hand through Sherlock's hair. It never got old when John did it, Sherlock remarked to himself. When Mummy or Mycroft did it, it was childish and condescending, but when John did it...perfect. Everything about the shorter, blond man was perfect, and Sherlock wondered how it had taken him eight months and nine days to wonder how to propose to him.

"Come on, let's check the website for cases." As John walked towards his chair, where his laptop sat half open, Sherlock took the deductions in again. Lines in forehead, shadows under eyes, shoulders sinking just slightly, hasn't shaved since two days ago, talked to Cameron recently. Tired. Worried. Sherlock stared at him, his head tilted to the side.

"There's been a robbery. Might have some running," John said, not noticing Sherlock's gaze on him.

"John, is someone close to you sick or injured?"

"No. I don't think so. Why?"

"You're worried and tired, you've lost sleep over this person, you went to see Cameron, so maybe it has to do with her?"

John shook his head. "No, darling. It's okay. I'm okay."

Sherlock knew he was lying just a little bit, but he leaned down and pecked him on the cheek, saying, "Alright. How about the robbery then? I'll get my coat."

John followed behind him, and Sherlock noticed before it was covered by a jacket that the jumper he'd hated with a passion not very long ago no longer held the same revulsion it used to. Love was truly so blind. Sherlock shook his head slightly in disbelief and grabbed John's hand. "Let's go."

At the last second, a meter from the front door, Sherlock stopped. "What is it?" John asked.

"I forgot something." Sherlock practically flew back up the stairs and into the flat. He took the key from his coat pocket and unlocked his violin case. Sherlock was finding himself increasingly paranoid about losing the ring just as he had with John a couple months ago. The ring he tucked carefully in the hidden inside fold of his coat, making sure it was secure before heading back down the stairs to John.

"Did you get it?" his boyfriend asked.

"Yes. I have it. Shall we?"

* * *

When David came home, Lis and Cameron were asleep on Lisbeth's bed. It was big enough for three people, Cam remembered blurrily thinking before she crashed. Unfortunately, that was the case.

"Afternoon, sunshine!" a cheerful, _male _voice said from her other side. Cam turned and barely opened her eyes. What she saw would have made her fall off the bed had she not been in the middle.

"David! When did you get here?" Lis asked angrily, but it was more adorable since she had been asleep as well. Cam couldn't resist pressing the tiniest kiss to her girlfriend's neck.

"About five minutes ago. However, I was tempted to surprise you and gave in. So, what were you two naughty girls up to while I was gone?" David's expression was far too happy for the circumstances, and Cameron knew Lisbeth would like nothing better than slapping it off. Of course, Cam thought she could probably do it too.

**"Get out!" **they both yelled, causing David to back away from the bed, palms forward in a placating gesture.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, but his eyes twinkled. "Well, if you really want me to get out, you won't be able to hear my marvelous idea."

Lis was having none of it, burrowing into Cameron's chest and nuzzling her like a bear cub nuzzles its mother. "Go 'way."

Cam sighed, staring down at the warm bundle in her arms. "Alright, say it, but be quick about it. This girl needs her sleep."

"I'm not even going to question why considering what I know about the situation." Cam glared at him, well, about as much as she could glare, and pecked Lisbeth on the top of the head. "But this lovely idea has to do with you, dear Cameron Hooper."

"Really? What is it?"

* * *

Lestrade checked his watch as we arrived. "Why the hell would you two be here? I thought he wouldn't leave the flat for anything less than a seven. This is at best a four."

"He needs a case or some cigarettes. Cases are better for both of us," I answered, looking over at him. Sherlock kept patting where his left breast pocket would be, and I wondered if it had the item he'd gone back into the flat for. It was small, small enough to be unnoticeable except for the fact he kept patting it. What sort of small item would make Sherlock Holmes act like that? I was stumped, and I didn't like it, especially because it had everything to do with the man I loved more than anything.

"Well, the robbery happened thirty minutes ago. Broke a window to get in and took one sapphire and diamond ring," At this part, Sherlock flinched slightly. "and two gold and emerald necklaces. Came back out the window and headed south." I didn't know why he'd flinched, but I kissed him on the cheek. He looked at me strangely and began his deductions.

"He wasn't actually going south. He went south at first to make the people think he went there, but he in fact turned and ran east once he was on the other side of the house."

"And how exactly do you know that?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Bloodstains leading away from the house near the broken window's corner of house, pieces of broken glass around the perimeter of the house being pulled out as he ran, stopping as he ran east, but the blood kept flowing. Leg wound, close to the ground. Bleeding quite a lot, but this one kept running. We'll be able to find him on foot."

"Amazing," I said. Sherlock smiled.

"Come on, John. Chases are more fun than just standing here." He took my hand and yanked me down the street. "I'll text you when we have him, Lestrade."

* * *

"What if you worked at the tattoo parlor? That way, you two could see each other all the time, and we all know how you hate doing nothing while Lis works at the café. Plus, you're very artsy, even though you've only let Lisbeth see your art, and you're practically part of the family anyway. How about it?" David asked. He looked kind of hopeful, which made Cam smile. He really did love his sister, enough to let her girlfriend stay around all the time.

"What do you think, Lisbeth?" Cam asked the body in her arms.

"As long as you get _trained._" She could feel Lisbeth's evil smile through her shirt.

"Training sounds lovely, but I have something I want to do first."

Lis looked up, her green eyes soft. "What do you want to do? I'm up for anything."

"I know, love. Come with me." Lisbeth all but leaped out of bed, trailing Cameron like an eager puppy. "Thank you, David."

"Anytime, Cam." David grinned at those two, even after they left. His sister was beyond lucky, and he hoped she knew that.

...

Cameron stopped the cabbie right in front of the small building. She could see the wondering look in Lisbeth's eyes. "Why are we at the parlor if you're not getting trained? In any way," Lis added, flushing a little. Cam didn't answer her, pulling her through the door, past the boy working at the desk, and between doorframes to reach the very back of the shop. The room back there was just the same as all the others, except this errand was special.

Cameron locked the door behind them, walking to the chair and sitting down. "I would like a tattoo, please."

Lisbeth's mouth fell open. "You're serious, sweetheart? I thought that was Camille's thing."

Cam had stopped wincing when she heard Camille's name, she noticed. "She brought it up, but I realized I wanted it because of you." She leaned forward in the chair. "I love you, Lisbeth Ingridson, and I want a mark to show that I do. And if you mark me, it will mean even more to me. So please, I want a tattoo."

Lis kissed her quietly. "I can't deny you anything, you know that." She pulled away and went to the cabinets for ink. "What do you want?"

"A bright green feather," Cam answered.

Lisbeth nodded. "Where?"

"I probably shouldn't put it on the left shoulder blade you love so much," Lis flushed again, "so I'll have it on the right."

"Okay." Lisbeth prepared the drawing she would use as a pattern for the tattoo and began with the ink. Cameron shivered at how cold the equipment was, and the needle's pain. She didn't really like pain very much, but she knew this was what she wanted.

When the feather was done, Lisbeth washed her hands in the corner sink and picked up a mirror from the counter under the cabinets. "Here you go. You probably won't be able to see it with just that mirror, so you can do the double mirror trick."

Cameron took the smaller mirror and stood in front of the full length mirror. Turning around, she held the small mirror up at just the right angle, until she could see her shoulder in the big mirror. "Lisbeth," she breathed. "It's beautiful."

"You're beautiful. They match," Lis whispered.

"John and I are in this for life," Cam remarked as they left the parlor. Her new tattoo stung, as Lisbeth said it would, but it was more than worth it.

"Yes. You are."

* * *

Sherlock and I caught our breaths in the alley all the police cars surrounded. We'd found the jewelry thief, and Lestrade was cuffing him as we stood there. Eventually, we looked at each other, still almost breathing correctly. It was the wrong thing to do. Sherlock and I laughed hysterically.

"Nothing like a good old fashioned chase to get the blood moving!" I huffed out.

"There would be so fewer obese people around if they did these like we do," Sherlock replied, a smile breaking across his face. I wondered if it was possible to laugh without smiling. I didn't think it was.

"Think of the adverts!" I said loudly. "If Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson can do it, you can too! Catch criminals while staying in shape!"

Sherlock and I kept giggling uncontrollably for a little while longer, but the euphoria didn't fade. Sherlock gazed over at me with a funny look though, and I was brought back to the situation. "What is it?"

He fumbled in his coat pocket for a moment. When he removed the item, he hid it behind his back. "John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You know, I asked Lisbeth how to do this, and consulted the Internet, and did some things I wouldn't normally do, but right now is the best time and place." Sherlock stared at his shoes for a second, but his eyes popped right back to me. "I am in love with you, John Watson, and I want to spend the rest of my life calling you my husband and being with you. So..." He pulled out the thing from behind his back. It was a ring, a silver-colored ring with a tiny diamond pressed into it. I could barely see the lines of my initials. I put a hand over my mouth. "Will you marry me?"

Without thinking, I rushed forward and kissed him. When I broke away, I said simply, "Yes."

His smile was almost too big for his face. "Yes."

I slid the ring on my finger and listened as he told me all the properties of its metal. As we walked out into the street to find a cab, I though about all the times I'd thought, 'Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm the only one who feels like this.' I wondered how I didn't see it, and laughed.

**End of Part Two**

* * *

**This is the very end. Thank you for reading, I love you all! See you next story. **


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